


Six Kinds of Love

by Frilly_Axolotl



Series: Six Kinds of Love AU [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Sex, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bondage, Consensual Sex, Falling In Love, First Time, Friendship, Gentle Sex, Guns, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Relationships, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Romance, Slavery, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trust Issues, Violence, Yuri Plisetsky is a Brat, Yuuri is selfless, broken character, so many cuddles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 88,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frilly_Axolotl/pseuds/Frilly_Axolotl
Summary: It's almost funny how one night can change a person's life forever.They were caught and sold together over a year ago. Two Yuris for the price of one, the auctioneer said. But now their sadistic Masters seem to have angered the enigmatic Viktor Nikiforov, who is willing to take on another slave or two as compensation.In a world where slavery is legal, it's hard to know who to trust. Sometimes, you just have to take a chance.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic! 
> 
> I'm still not sure if I'm happy with the title, but I can change it later I guess. The only thing I will say about this fic right now is that obviously it's a AU in which slavery is common and different countries have different laws about it. Hopefully this will become clearer throughout the chapter x3
> 
> Please enjoy!

Someone is calling his name. Shaking him, gently at first, then more vigorously. The occasional “hey, wake up” is thrown in there. It’s a voice he sort of recognises but can’t identify through the thick fog in his head. Which is pounding.

Yuuri grumbles at whoever is trying to rouse him, telling them to go away and let him sleep a little longer. Just long enough to shift this rapidly intensifying headache. The owner of the voice – a male, Yuuri decides – growls quietly. A light slap is delivered to the back of his head, making him yelp. The male continues to call his name in a hushed whisper. Yuuri can’t even really bring himself to move. Not when his limbs feel like lead and his brain might be about to explode inside his skull.

“Hey, you promised you’d look out for me,” the voice hisses. “Well I’m fucking scared, so get up.”

For the first time, Yuuri notes the accent in the voice. He barely registers that English is being spoken but can tell for certain that the accent is Russian. Of course it is. He’s in Russia.

It takes a tremendous amount of effort for him to force his eyes open, only to be met with a dark wall. He groans as he tries to roll himself over. Whoever was talking to him before scoots back a little to give him room.

The area is dimly lit and blurred out. Where are his glasses? His eyes are naturally drawn to the lightest thing in here – a small and pale figure sitting beside him. Their knees are drawn up tight to their chest and violent shivers are wracking their body. It takes another few seconds for Yuuri to realise why: it’s freezing in here, and his companion is naked, desperately trying to cover up his modesty. Yuuri frowns when he realises he is _also_ completely naked. Why is he not wearing any clothes? Oh God, did he and this stranger…?

He pushes himself up into a slightly seated position and the thought dissolves as creeping dread fills him. This room – he doesn’t recognise it. It’s far too dingy and cold to be someone’s living space. And this person, this male, is young. Probably still a teenager. Yuuri hasn’t even been drinking and he knows he’d never sleep with a minor.

His eyes lock with the stranger’s. Chin-length blond hair frames and hides his face, but even without his glasses Yuuri can tell the person is terrified. The stranger’s pale green eyes are wide open, jaw chittering. The longer Yuuri looks, the more he remembers.

_“Hey, they called for Yuri!” the short blond snaps in English. His accent is mild, but he is definitely local._

_Yuuri blinks. “I **am** Yuuri. Is that your name too?”_

_“Obviously,” the other Yuri snaps as be begins unlacing his skates._

_Yuuri is a little put out that the announcement over the tannoy has interrupted his skating, but it must be important. It was an adventurous decision he made to come all the way out to Russia with his friends, especially when he knows how badly he deals with big crowds and new people like this. But at the prospect of this party – a sort of ‘disco on ice’ – Yuuri decided to finally brave the world outside of his hotel room. If there’s one thing Yuuri Katsuki is good at, it’s skating._

_“Which one of us do you think they mean?” Yuuri asks._

_“How the fuck should I know? Just hurry up so we can go see.”_

“Urgh,” Yuuri groans, massaging his forehead. This could well be the start of a hangover, even though he doesn’t remember drinking any alcohol. “Yuri?”

“It’s about fucking time,” the small Russian snarls. “I’ve been sitting here alone for ages!”

“What happened?” he asks, glancing around. Without his glasses, he can’t make out anything in the distance. The room is pretty dark anyway, and small.

“Well, after they drugged you, they threw us into the back of a van,” Yuri says, and Yuuri tries not to exclaim at this news. Drugged? Van? “We drove for ages. At some point they stopped for gas, and I tried to get out, but they…” The younger male touches his own cheek gently. Whatever is there is obscured by blond hair. “I didn’t make it. And now I have no idea where we are, but they took our clothes, they put this shit on us, and they say we’re both up for auction soon, and I-”

Yuri is tugging hard on something around his neck. His words swirl around Yuuri’s head, making as much sense as Russian to a Japanese man, but he recognises Yuri’s panic. It stings something in his chest. Yuri is so young, or at least he appears to be. There is fear in Yuuri’s chest for whatever is going to happen, but there is abject terror leaking out of the younger male right now.

With a sluggish hand, he reaches up to pull one of Yuri’s away from his neck. He tries to disguise his disgust when he sees a black leather collar complete with silver loops and buckles strapped snugly against the pale throat. Yuuri doesn’t need to touch his neck to know that a similar article is wrapped around his own neck: he can feel the weight of it.

“Yuri, it’s okay,” he says, trying to sound soothing.

The teenager shakes his head wildly. “No, no, no, it’s not okay! Do you know what’s going to happen to us? Do you even realise what’s _already_ happened? This isn’t Japan where there are laws against this shit. This is Russia! Things are different here!”

Slavery. It hits Yuuri like a massive block of ice right in his gut. The harsh reality of being stripped completely naked and collared comes crashing down on the Japanese man as the skinny blond continues to rant. They are going to be up for auction – they are going to be sold off to some rich sleaze who will…

But Yuuri isn’t a Russian citizen. This doesn’t make any sense. It should be illegal for him to be pushed into slavery, even in this country where more and more people are lawfully forced into it. They must have made a mistake. He wishes he’d taken his passport to the rink with him.

Yuuri shakes his head. He can’t succumb to his own fear right now. Not when Yuri needs him.

“Yuri! Yuri, you need to calm down,” he insists in as gentle a voice as he can. “You’ll be okay. I won’t let them do anything to you, I promise.”

It sounds so painfully sincere, but Yuri clearly doesn’t believe any of it.

“What the fuck can you do?” the Russian snaps. “Don’t promise stupid shit like that. Don’t lie to make me feel better. I’m not an idiot and I’m not naïve, I _know_ what’s coming. I know I’ve got everything some of those sick bastards want. You know, they said they’re selling us together. Two Yuris for the price of one. They’re going to look at me and nothing you do or say is going to stop them from having me.”

Yuuri wants to touch the younger male; wants to place a hand on his knee or his shoulder or _something_ , but he knows if he even tries, he’s going to get a finger bitten off. So instead, he lets Yuri work himself up until he inevitably starts to calm down. Yuuri doesn’t know how, but somehow he’s going to protect the teenager. He _has_ to. Yuri is barely on the cusp of adulthood, his body still small and delicate-looking. To let harm come to him sounds like a one-way trip to a guilty conscience.

The longer they sit there, the more it comes back to Yuuri. What happened. He remembers stepping outside into the frigid night air with Yuri at his side only to be met with several silent figures all regarding them both. They’d spoken in Russian to each other, but Yuri’s startled gasp and frantic yanking on his arm had let Yuuri know something was wrong.

Whatever happened next comes to Yuuri in pieces. He can recall fighting, shouting, harsh hands and heavy bodies. Yuri had been screaming out curses in both Russian and English, thrashing with everything he had. Yuuri thinks the Russian must have gotten a good hit in around the same time _he_ had, because the men attacking them had yelped then barked out hasty orders. The memory of a sharp jabbing sensation in his outer thigh has him glancing down to see a tiny red pinprick and a sizeable purple bruise blossoming around it. It’s tender to touch but he’s had far worse injuries.

Though they seem to sit there forever, Yuuri doesn’t have enough time to wish he could go home or think of ways to escape. The door bursts open at some point, and three hulking men step in, chains clinking in their hands. Neither of them have the chance to resist – the men attach chains to the loops on their collars that act as leashes, and a complicated series of clicks has Yuuri’s arms twisted painfully behind him. It feels like the cuffs around his wrists are attached to the collar somehow as the leather is digging into his skin, almost choking him. He glances to Yuri as they’re hauled to their feet and dragged from the room, but the blond doesn’t appear to be paying attention. Instead, his eyes are focused firmly on the floor. He’s unsure if it’s a defence mechanism or if this is something the teenager, as a Russian, was taught to do. Yuuri suddenly wishes he’d never come to this country.

When they are pulled from the corridor onto a stage complete with hot, bright lights and a masked audience, Yuuri finally feels his face go red. He is used to his parents’ onsen. He is used to being naked in the presence of others. But he’s also used to being submerged in steaming water, not being thrust out in front of what could be hundreds of people without a way to cover himself. This…this is terrifying, and the thought of his parents and never seeing them again grows a lump in his throat.

Yuri is quivering beside him as they are pushed to the front of the stage and made to twirl. He tries to ask the Russian what is being said (there is a man at their side addressing the audience), but the blond says nothing, eyes ever fixated on his feet. Yuuri can tell he is desperate to cover his nude body from the way his spine is curved, but knows he is terrified of what will happen if he dares.

The audience begin calling out, one at a time, and the man at their side acknowledges each of them. It occurs to Yuuri that they are placing bids. Shouting out amounts. He shivers, glad he cannot understand how much he and this stranger are going to sell for. He never wants to find out. He’d rather pretend none of this is happening.

Everything becomes a blur when the final number is called out. The two of them are forced backstage again, tripping over their own feet. A sensation similar to drowning begins to engulf Yuuri as the pair are led away and told in broken English that their “Masters” will collect them shortly. Yuri quakes at that. Yuuri can’t blame him.

He feels utterly sick later when two men enter the room and introduce themselves as these “Masters”. They speak good English, but their voices are harsh, their eyes cold, and their bodies and muscles large. So much larger than both his and Yuri’s.

Looking at his fate, Yuuri grimly understands why Yuri didn’t believe his platitudes earlier.


	2. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri Plisetsky is a selfish human being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to let you all know that the first few chapters are definitely going to be heavy on the icky stuff (see below) and the FEELS. It will get better x3
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include: references to past rape, non-consensual love bites, non-consensual grinding, a non-consensual blowjob (and the mess that comes with it), and threatening dirty talk.

**Yuri**

“Are you serious?”

Yuri glances up at the sound of Isaak’s voice outside the kitchen. He’s doing the dishes (even though there is a perfectly good dishwasher right beside him). It’s monotonous and boring, so boring that even Isaak is a welcome distraction. The man, whom Yuri is forced to call “Master”, sounds enraged as he snaps down the phone at someone.

“How the fuck did you manage that, shit for brains?” Isaak snarls in Russian. After a moment, he sighs. It’s an irritated sound. “Nikiforov won’t be easily placated. You better think of something before you get back here, Matvei.”

The dull thud must be Isaak throwing the phone against the wall, Yuri thinks with a snide smile. He hopes it breaks and costs a fortune to replace.

Matvei is the other Master of the two who bought him around a year ago now. From what Yuri has gathered, Matvei and Isaak are lovers, although as far as he can tell, their relationship is mostly Matvei fucking up big time and Isaak losing his temper over it. Yuri rarely has to worry about Isaak’s temper. The man has been a bit of a loose cannon since day one, but he never takes out his anger on Yuri. In fact, Yuri finds it easy to admit that life isn’t unbearable here.

At least not for him.

Yuuri Katsuki, the Japanese idiot who’d been sold with him, is as true to his word now as he was back then. He promised Yuri with a startling amount of sincerity that he would never let their new Masters hurt him. Yuri supposes it’s a good thing that these Masters are game for a deal and are still keeping their word. After all, they didn’t have to listen to Yuuri then and they certainly don’t now.

Sometimes, Yuri is torn. He knows what Yuuri endures in order to keep him safe. He’s _seen_ it once. Once on that horrible first day that still forces him awake at night when Yuuri’s pained cries pierce his ears… He’s seen it, he knows, he is so achingly full of gratitude for the man who was a stranger to him back then, he wishes Yuuri didn’t have to suffer. But at the same time…at the same time, Yuri doesn’t think he would be able to cope with the things Yuuri does. The things he’s made to do. He’s sure if Isaak is pounding into _him_ from behind and Matvei is stuffing his hard cock down _his_ slim throat, he will break. Selfishly, he hopes they keep their word and continue to focus their attentions on Yuuri.

A selfish brat is what he is. That’s what his mother always called him. Yuri believes it wholeheartedly at this point. Selfish. Inconsiderate. Egocentric. After all, what kind of decent human being sits by while these things happen and thinks that things are better this way?

It’s not that he’s heartless. In the year or so they’ve been here, Yuuri Katsuki has become Yuri’s best and only friend. And it’s always Yuri who needs to help the Japanese man in the aftermath of his sessions with Isaak and Matvei. Day after day, Yuri sees all manner of new marks – bruises, cuts, welts – decorating Yuuri’s body like paint on a canvas. While the older male lies there, utterly spent and in pain, Yuri cleans him. He scrubs gently at any drying blood on his skin, wipes away sticky cum if it’s splattered on his face and back. Yuuri cleans his more private areas himself once Yuri has managed to get him to the bathroom for a shower. Not that Yuri can blame him, and he’s even a little thankful because he really doesn’t want to put his hands anywhere near there. He’s had to do it a couple of times before: sometimes Isaak in particular likes to leave Yuuri in bondage with toys drilled in to the hilt or ropes tied agonisingly tight around an unwillingly hard cock. Usually in those instances, Yuuri is far too exhausted to sort himself out safely.

Yuri wishes he didn’t have to do these things, but he never wants to be on the receiving end.

He’s _not_ heartless. Seeing his friend so shattered and hurt only makes _Yuri_ hurt. Having to care for a man older than him because he’s been fucked so hard he can’t walk makes Yuri feel guilty. But Yuuri Katsuki never complains to his Russian friend and fellow slave. Yuuri Katsuki smiles and tells Yuri not to worry because he’s fine, just tired, but thank you for helping. Yuri feels such a deep sense of shame – though marginally different from the shame the Japanese man must feel – but he still does not ever wish he could take some of the burden.

Yuuri Katsuki is soft-spoken and has wide, kind brown eyes. He is filled with anxiety, he cries more often than he would ever admit. But Yuuri Katsuki is also strong. So much stronger than Yuri Plisetsky, who is aggressive to cover up how small and afraid he feels. So much stronger than Yuri Plisetsky, who knows if he ever has to go through even a fraction of what Yuuri has experienced, it will destroy him.

Yuri Plisetsky is _not_ heartless, but he’s never really been the altruistic type.

With a quiet sigh, Yuri dries the last of the plates and puts it away. It’s gone silent now, but this house is fairly big. He knows Isaak is upstairs relieving some tension with Yuuri as he just stands here in his borrowed boxers and too large t-shirt. The clothes need to be washed, but Yuri is always hesitant to remove and clean them: these simple articles plus the leather collar strapped somewhat loosely around his neck are the _only_ things he’s allowed to wear. If he takes them off, he is bare until they are washed and dry again. Neither Isaak nor Matvei have ever broken their deal with Yuuri, but the Russian can’t stand the thought of being any more vulnerable than he already is.

He wanders quietly from the kitchen, intent on finding something to occupy his time with, but stops dead. The corridor should be empty. Instead, Isaak is marching up it towards him. He looks equal parts pissed off and amused. Did he finish with Yuuri already? Yuuri has been feeling a little under the weather lately…

“Master,” he bites out with his head down as Isaak passes him. Yuri may not have to take the abuse Yuuri does, but he knows there’s trouble if he doesn’t greet either man the way he’s been taught.

Isaak stops dead. Yuri’s heart skips a beat. That’s not what normally happens. The man turns slowly, a sickly smile on his face and an obvious bulge in his pants. Yuri wants to glare but knows he only looks nervous.

“Yuri…” Isaak’s voice is dripping with poisoned honey. It makes Yuri want to run and hide. “Oh, Yuri, you might just be able to help me out.”

Yuri swallows down the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. Fear is creeping up his spine like a spider. He wants desperately to take a step back, but he knows if he does, there will be punishment involved and he already doesn’t like the tone in Isaak’s voice or the hungry look in his eye.

He has to force himself to speak words he doesn’t mean. “How can I serve you? Master,” he adds bitterly.

Isaak walks closer with that grin on his face. Yuri can’t help that he backs up. He startles when he hits the wall and tries so damn hard to look like he isn’t terrified.

“That’s exactly it, my little Yuri,” Isaak says. He traps Yuri against the wall, his muscled arms caging the small blond in. Something inside Yuri freezes when Isaak’s hot breath blows across his ear. “I think you _can_ serve me.”

He can feel that his eyes are wide and his mouth is open as Isaak pushes his blond hair aside and licks his ear. The much bigger man nibbles and sucks slowly. A large hand comes to rest on Yuri’s hip. It’s only when Isaak presses his clothed erection against Yuri’s stomach that he can move.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Yuri hisses. He dares to lift a hand and press it to Isaak’s shoulder. The man doesn’t move. Probably doesn’t even feel his weak shoves. “Get off me.”

“Yuri, Yuri, Yuri, you should know by now that that’s no way to speak to your Master,” Isaak chides. It sounds more like he’s condescending. “You _know_ you don’t have the right to deny me.”

Yuri’s heart is pounding furiously against his chest. This can’t be happening. Not after all this time. Not right here in the hallway.

He snaps his head to the side so that Isaak can no longer reach his ear, but the man simply chuckles and dives down to clamp his teeth onto Yuri’s neck. Yuri’s green eyes slam shut and yelps in pain. He feels Isaak begin to suck on the soft skin. Hard and unforgiving. It’ll leave a mark.

_No, this isn’t happening, this can’t be happening._

“S-Stop!” Yuri growls. Or tries to. His voice sounds more like a pathetic whine. “You told Yuuri-”

Isaak snarls, and suddenly his hand is tight around Yuri’s throat and he’s pressed even harder into the wall and Isaak is grinding his covered hard-on uncomfortably against Yuri’s stomach. Yuri’s hands fly to Isaak’s arm. He tries to pry the man off, but Isaak’s muscles aren’t just for show. Fingers constrict, Yuri can’t breathe.

“Whatever I told my whore no longer applies,” he says in a voice that is gravelly and dangerous. “I am the Master. I can do whatever I want whenever I want.” His fingers tighten briefly, and Yuri’s eyes feel like they’re going to burst right out of his skull. “Do you understand, slave?”

Tears are collecting in Yuri’s eyes.

“Yes, yes, M-Master!” he gasps.

“So if, for example, I tell you to get down on your knees and swallow my dick until you can’t breathe, you _do it_. You don’t argue back. You don’t try to refuse me or fight me. You choke yourself on me until you’ve passed out, and you will act like you love it. Understand?”

Isaak’s fingers are so sold around his throat, his neck is going to snap at any moment.

“What was that, slave? I can’t hear you!”

“P-Ple-”

He lets Yuri go, and Yuri almost keels right over as he forces air into his lungs, throat aching. Yuri coughs, tries as hard as he can to back away from Isaak, but there’s nowhere to go.

It’s not uncommon for Isaak to kind of lose it sometimes. Yuri’s lost count of the number of times he’s accidentally pissed the man off and received a black eye or a swollen cheek because of it. This, though…this is new. Isaak has never grabbed him like this, has never threatened him like this.

The man’s body is pressed against him again, hips rubbing harshly against Yuri. He’s letting out quiet, guttural moans. Yuri is frozen and doesn’t even think about resisting when Isaak grabs his waist and pulls him closer. Crushed between Isaak’s weight and the wall, Yuri closes his eyes. Isaak continues to grind hard against him.

“Fuck, Yuri,” he groans. “I can’t wait to bury my cock as deep into your ass as it’ll go. Your little virgin hole must be so tight. I’ll fuck you hard, Yuri. I’ll make sure you _bleed_. Fucking hell, I bet you’re so tight, all the prep in the world wouldn’t be enough. What do you think? Answer me, slave.”

All that comes out of Yuri’s mouth is a stammering vowel sound. Still rutting against him and with one hand on his waist, Isaak snatches Yuri’s chin and forces his head up. He looks angry for all of a second before his eyes settle on Yuri’s lips. The pad of his thumb tugs at the lower one. Yuri instinctually opens his mouth.

Isaak moans.

“Yuri, I want to see you choke on my cock. I want to see your throat swollen with it. I want to see my cum spilling out the sides of your mouth.” He grunts as he finds a new rhythm in his grinding. “Should I fuck your throat before or after I pound your cute ass?”

Yuri can’t help it. He whimpers as a few tears make their way down his face. He is long past wondering what brought this on. He just wants it to end.

What wishful thinking.

Pressure on his shoulders makes him sink to his knees. The sounds of rustling fabric and a zipper being pulled are the only things he hears over his own belligerent heartbeat. He flinches when the reddened head of Issak’s weeping cock presses to his lips, which Yuri refuses to open.

“Come on, slave,” Isaak says. “Show me what you can do.”

Yuri’s never done this before. He’s never _had_ to do this before. He doesn’t want to. Isaak’s scent is strong, his cock fat and long and dripping opalescent liquid that tastes bitter. No way he’s putting it in his mouth.

“Don’t be stubborn, Yuri,” Isaak chastises. “I’ve gotten used to your friend’s compliance. If I have to force you, you won’t like it.”

Ever defiant, Yuri still does not open his lips. Instead he turns his head away.

Isaak huffs.

Rough hands grab his hair, and it’s so startling and painful that Yuri’s mouth drops open so he can yelp: a mistake. It takes less than a second for Isaak to shove his hips forward. Then that intimidating cock is forced against the back of his throat, Yuri’s nose is pressed deep into curly black hair, and he can’t breathe all over again.

“If I feel teeth, I’ll tear you a new hole to fuck,” Isaak warns.

All manner of disgusting sounds try to force their way out of Yuri’s mouth. Retching, gagging, awful coughing as his throat convulses and constricts around the appendage in an attempt to push it out. But Isaak holds Yuri’s hair tight. Even his desperate clawing and hitting does nothing.

“Matvei is a little gentler,” Isaak says conversationally as he drags Yuri’s head away before jerking it back. There’s an ache in his jaw and throat already. “He’d probably ease you into it. Maybe if you do a good job here, I’ll let him have your ass first.”

Tears blur Yuri’s vision. He can’t focus on anything, only thinks about how he can’t breathe because Isaak’s swollen dick is sliding vigorously down his throat. His eyes fall shut as Isaak ruts against his face, spitting out expletives and vile promises until the man’s thrusts become erratic and he’s throwing his head back and crying out.

Yuri feels it and wants to vomit. Hot and sticky, Isaak’s cum collects at the back of his throat, spilling forward into his mouth where the pulsing cock still sits.

“Swallow it,” Isaak tells him harshly.

He tries. He tries his best to swallow around the thick appendage without scraping his teeth against the skin. Slowly, Isaak releases his hair, and Yuri tears himself away. A string of cum mixed with saliva connects the head with Yuri’s lips until it snaps and trails down his chin. Rogue globs of cum that he’s not been able to swallow down roll from his lips and onto his t-shirt.

Shivers that have nothing to do with the temperature take him as Isaak tucks himself back into his jeans. He lifts his arms to wrap around himself, not entirely sure what has just happened, but knows the t-shirt needs to be washed now if he doesn’t want it to stain. It already feels like Isaak has stained his skin somehow. Oh God, he wants to throw up so badly, to get every drop of what he’s just swallowed out of his system. The taste is still heavy and bitter on his tongue.

Isaak steps back and pushes his hair out of his face. Yuri does not dare speak.

“Ah, that feels better,” Isaak sighs. “In case you’re wondering, Yuri, your friend is still sick. In fact, I’d say he’s looking a lot worse. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the rest of the week. Probably my fault. I must have gotten too carried away with the knife the other day. One of the wounds is looking awfully red. I wonder if it’s infected.”

Yuri’s brows turn up in concern.

“Should we look up how long it takes the body to succumb to infection?” Isaak suggests. Yuri balks. “The sooner that slut dies, the sooner I’m going to make you sit on my dick.”

Yuuri is sick. _Really_ sick. An infection is dangerous. He might be dying. Yuri knows there’s not a chance in hell Isaak is going to get him any kind of help, but he _does_ know this is the man’s twisted version of a game. One Yuri doesn’t want to play. The only thing he wants is to go to Yuuri, to see how much he can do, to _be_ there for him, and to completely forget the empty feeling inside him that came with Isaak fucking his face.

A nod from Isaak is all he needs before he is off. He is tearing the t-shirt off and wiping his chin brutally with it as he bolts up the stairs, not wanting Yuuri to be concerned about him for even a second if he’s truly as unwell as Isaak says he is.

There’s a kind of panic rolling through his chest. From the moment he was first dragged into the world of slavery, Yuuri has been there with him. It’s always been Yuuri who kept him grounded, anchored securely in the moment instead of letting him walk off the edge and drown. If Yuuri is sick – if Isaak lets him die – Yuri isn’t sure how he will cope. If Yuuri leaves him, he doesn’t know how long he’ll survive because if Yuuri dies, everything will change and there will be no one here to help him.

Maybe it’s selfish. _Yuri_ is selfish. He’d much rather the stupid Japanese man with a fondness for pork cutlet bowls stays with him and suffers instead of being free. But for as self-centred as that wish is, he knows Yuuri would never want to leave him alone in a place like this. That makes him feel a tiny bit better.

He bursts into Yuuri’s room, habitually closing the door behind him, and his heart wants to shatter at what he sees. It’s clear that Isaak has tried – there are various toys lying out and a piece of rope wrapped loosely around Yuuri’s slim wrists (the man used to be bigger, but has definitely lost weight since being here). From the way the Japanese male is curled on the bed, it’s clear he was far too exhausted to follow Isaak’s commands. Suddenly what happened downstairs makes sense.

The rise and fall of Yuuri’s shoulders tells the blond Russian that he’s having a hard time breathing. Yuri has read in a book – he had to learn in order to provide Yuuri with the aftercare the Masters denied him – that the use of accessory muscles for breathing is a bad sign. A sparkling sheen of sweat covers his friend’s forehead. Despite this, he seems to be shivering.

Yuri darts forward and flings everything off the bed bar the pillows, the blankets, and Yuuri himself. He covers the man’s naked lower half with a thinner blanket. Yuuri’s eyelids flutter at the contact. He shifts slightly but stops abruptly and lets out a pained moan. With a schooled expression, Yuri glances over the man’s exposed back.

There are many long, thin cuts here. Some are from a whipping that was far too brutal. The deeper ones come from the knife Isaak talked about. They all look to be healing well except one. It’s just shy of his shoulder blade, sitting between that bone and his spine. The colour of the skin around it is such a fierce, angry shade of red, Yuri doesn’t even need to touch it to feel how hot it is. The edges look kind of serrated. Definitely not smooth like the other cuts. And it’s swollen, so swollen he can see an icky mess of yellowish green stuff inside it. He’s never seen an infected wound before, but he can say with confidence that this one is infected. Badly.

Slow and careful, he runs his hand through Yuuri’s black hair. The man’s eyelids twitch again.

“Yurio?”

A nickname, one that only Yuuri is allowed to use. The Japanese man started calling him that only a few days into their life here. They know who they are – they don’t need to differentiate between themselves. But there’s something comforting about the nickname. It reminds him of his grandpa, and how the gruff old man would call him “Yuratchka”. It makes him feel like he’s home even though he’s sure he’ll never see home again.

“It’s me,” Yuri replies, his voice barely a whisper.

Yuuri blinks his eyes until brown meets bright green, a tired smile gracing his face that is somehow both pale and flushed.

“I’m okay, Yurio,” the man insists. “He didn’t do anything this time. I’m just tired.”

“You’re not well,” Yuri retorts. His voice doesn’t rise in volume, but it is definitely harsher. “And you’re not moving from this spot until you’re better.”

He doesn’t wait for Yuuri to respond. He makes quick work of filling a basin with cool water and returning to Yuuri’s side. Everything he’s read tells him that Yuuri’s so hot to the touch because his body is fighting off the infection. His temperature _needs_ to be high. But Yuri also knows that if it gets too high, he’s at even more risk.

So he dips a cloth into the water, wrings it out, and lays it as gently as he can on Yuuri’s back. Yuuri yelps at first. The wound is surely painful to touch. Then he settles and lets out a contented sigh. Yuri runs his fingers through sweaty black hair again.

“Look at you taking care of me,” Yuuri mumbles, finding the strength to roll a little so that he’s completely on his stomach. He chuckles. “What would I do without you?”

Darkly, Yuri thinks the other man might be dead without him. He doesn’t voice this thought aloud.

Yuuri drifts in and out of consciousness for a long time while Yuri sits at his side, occasionally dipping the cloth back in the cool water. It’s boring. Not that Yuri minds. There’s never been a whole lot to do in this house anyway, at least for him. And he’s content to sit at Yuri’s side forever if it brings the man a small amount of comfort.

He hears Matvei come back. There are raised voices, the sound of something smashing. Isaak is not happy. Matvei argues his case. They fight until the sun begins to set on the horizon and Yuri is deciding he’ll stay here with his friend tonight.

Thirty minutes of silence go by until both Matvei and Isaak burst into the room. Isaak looks positively livid, but Matvei looks relieved as he digs around the room for something. Yuri eyes Isaak warily. Questions burn on his tongue, but he is too afraid to ask them.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Isaak snaps at Matvei.

Matvei turns to the two Yuris, a pair of black underwear in his hands. Yuri tries to sooth the Japanese man as Matvei struggles to dress him in them. He wonders what the occasion is. Yuuri has never been allowed clothes.

“We have nothing else to offer him!” Matvei argues as he hikes the underwear up Yuuri’s legs. “This is Viktor Nikiforov we’re talking about, he won’t be satisfied with money or a simple apology. He’ll want something personal. He said he was willing to look at them.”

Them? By “them”, did Matvei mean Yuri and the Japanese?

“You realise this isn’t going to end well for us.” It was a statement from Isaak, not a question. “No way Nikiforov’s going to take a dying slave. He’ll want the blond one, and we’ll be stuck with the corpse.”

Yuri’s eyes flick to the Japanese man who is thankfully still asleep. The two men are speaking Russian, but Yuri hates the idea of the unconscious man having to listen to anyone talking about him like that.

“Well then we give him the blond one and we dispose of the body when the other one dies.”

“I haven’t even gotten the chance to fuck him yet!” Isaak whines. He sounds like a petulant child. “Maybe I should just do it now while I still can.”

Yuri flinches.

“Don’t be a fucking moron,” Matvei snaps. He’s finally gotten Yuuri’s underwear on, so he hops off the bed and begins rifling through drawers again. “I’ve already told him Yuri’s a virgin. You do anything to him now, Nikiforov will know and then it’s _my_ head that’ll roll when he calls us out for being liars.”

“What’s the point in even taking them both when we know which one he’ll pick?” Isaak demands. He begins helping Matvei search through the drawers.

“He explicitly said he wants to look at _both_ of them. We have to do what he asks.”

Isaak pouts. If it were anyone else, it would be cute.

“Look, I’ll buy you a _new_ slave once this is all over, okay?” Matvei offers. “But right now my hands are tied. Let’s just pack them up and get moving.”

A trickle of fear slides down Yuri’s throat. Who is Viktor Nikiforov? What has Matvei done that requires such a large apology? Does this mean the two of them are going to be separated?

He tries to swallow down his nausea as Isaak begins tying him up with ropes, but all he can think about is his uncertain future and how everything is about to go horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate all the kudos you guys have left me! Please also don't be afraid to leave comments :D I'm kind of interested to see what you guys think about Yurio's feelings here. IS he being selfish? Do main characters always have to be self-sacrificing and pure of heart?
> 
> Next chapter (coming out in a few days) we'll meet Viktor!
> 
> I suddenly appreciate how difficult it is to write about two characters who are the same sex and have the same name >.< Save me!


	3. Compensation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's too kind. Yuri doesn't trust it for a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: a brief reference to suicide, Isaak, panic/panic attacks, references to dying, heavy feels

**Yuri**

It’s cold in the car.

The heater is turned up high, but Isaak has the window rolled down so that he can blow smoke from his cigarette out. He’s only done this because Matvei hates the smell. Yuri doesn’t know which he would prefer – choking on thick clouds of poison, or freezing because it’s still only March and snow is piled thick and high at the sides of the road. It doesn’t help that he’s sitting in a simple pair of boxers that are probably a little too big for him.

He glances at Yuuri to his left. The dark-haired man’s eyes are shut and his face twisted in pain: definitely asleep but still uncomfortable. Yuri wishes he could help. With that infected wound on his back, it’s bound to be agonising leaning against the seat when his hands are bound tightly behind him. He wishes he could help, but his hands are twisted behind his back with unforgiving rope as well – as if he would be foolish enough to try to escape – and there’s a gag tied tight around his mouth. Isaak can’t stand listening to them together, he says, and unfortunately they only have one ball-gag. Apparently it’s best if they’re presented to this Viktor Nikiforov exactly the same. Which is why, instead of drooling around a rubber ball, there’s a rag stuffed in his mouth and a length of thick fabric tied around his head to keep him from spitting it out. He can feel the rag is saturated with his spit. The lingering taste of Isaak is still there too. It’s gross.

Yuri has not seen anything outside the windows of his prison for over a year, so he tries to take in the scenery and the snow in place of thinking about his fate. He tries to imagine what it would be like to skate again because oh, how he misses skating. It’s like an entire part of himself has been gouged away without it. He knows Yuuri feels the same way. They were passionate about the ice before being kidnapped. It’s one of the many things they have bonded over.

But not even thoughts of the ice and how it feels to glide can quell the simmering anxiety in his gut.

Their life with Isaak and Matvei is awful but there’s a sense of routine to it at this point. Despite everything Yuuri has to endure, nothing is ever unexpected. Despite everything, they are together. It makes Yuri feel nauseous to think that it’s all about to change forever.

Isaak was right earlier. Viktor Nikiforov – whoever he is – is going to take one look at the pair of slaves and pick Yuri. Because Yuri is slim, in good health, and blond. He looks frail and dainty (despite his best efforts not to). He looks exactly like the kind of person sadists want to dominate. Maybe it won’t be so bad with this man, he thinks. Maybe Viktor is gentler. Kinder. Yuri knows not _all_ Masters are like Isaak and Matvei, because he’s met them at parties over the last year. But then it doesn’t matter how kind Viktor is or slow he takes it, Yuri doesn’t want to be used. He doesn’t want to have to give anyone pleasure. He doesn’t want to be separated from Yuuri, who will most certainly die if he’s left with the brute at the wheel of the car. Without Yuuri, he can’t cope.

Not that he will ever admit this aloud.

There’s always the alternative, though it seems extremely far-fetched to him. Maybe Viktor will pick Yuuri. What if he likes Asian men? What if, to Viktor, Yuuri is worth the trouble of doctors and medicine? Or worse, what if Viktor decides Yuuri is worth a quick fuck even if he’s dying? If that happens, he knows they’re both doomed. The Japanese man will succumb to his infection – he’s already so dangerously close to the edge – and Yuri will be dragged into a living nightmare. And he knows it will be too much for him, too painful, too invasive, and far too difficult without his companion.

He shakes his head.

Yuri Plisetsky would rather die than become anyone’s toy. He will make sure Isaak never gets the chance to use him like he’s used Yuuri. No matter what it takes.

Isaak and Matvei make idle conversation in the front for the rest of the drive. It takes them around three hours in total to arrive at their destination. The sky is black and dusted with stars by this time, but Yuri can see the mansion the second they make the turn in the woodland road. It’s huge. Far bigger than the place he’s just come from. Even the gardens must be enormous, because the car rolls to a stop before they’re even close so that Isaak can speak through an intercom to get someone to open the gates.

Gravel crackles underneath the car as they pull up a long driveway. Grimly, Yuri thinks that is the sound of his inevitable death. Though his heart is threatening to burst out of his chest at any second, he doesn’t let anything show and he doesn’t try to put up any kind of a fight as Isaak drags him from the car. It’d be stupid to resist. It’s always stupid to resist.

The path under Yuri’s bare feet is like ice and the frozen air around him bites at his skin. He hisses the first time his foot plants onto the ground. Isaak growls impatiently and tightens his already bruising grip on Yuri’s arm.

At his side, Yuuri doesn’t even seem to realise what is happening. He is walking, badly, with Matvei practically holding him up, but he reacts in no way to the cold. His eyes look unfocused.

Someone is walking down the path to meet them. A man, taller than Yuri for sure, and with skin that looks naturally tanned. He must be cold with that undercut, Yuri thinks before he manages to glance into those eyes. Dark – almost black – and void of emotion just like the rest of his masculine face. They stop walking as the man approaches. Yuri prays this isn’t Viktor. There’s something unsettling about his unwavering stoicism, even as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Welcome,” he says in English. Completely deadpan. “Pleasant drive?”

Isaak snorts. “Otabek Altin? I thought Nikiforov would have shipped you back to Kazakhstan after what you did.”

His face does not waver even a little. “I don’t think that has anything to do with you. Shall we step inside and get this over with? Mr. Nikiforov is not patient.”

Isaak’s next words are in Russian, and they make Yuri flinch with how much venom is in them. “Matvei, can you believe he’s still got this dirty Kazakh working for him? What a fucking joke.”

The man’s – Otabek’s – eyes twitch down for all of half a second to meet Yuri’s. If he has any indication of what has just been said, he does not show it. Yuri shies under his piercing gaze.

“Lead the way,” Isaak says with an overly polite smile.

Otabek begins back up the path and doesn’t pay them any more mind until they arrive at the front of the mansion. He opens the door for them. Matvei steps in with Yuuri stumbling beside him, but as Yuri makes to head in too, Isaak tugs him back by the arm.

Hot breath that smells like cigarettes blows into his ear.

“When Nikiforov signs the papers for you and tosses that slut back to us, do you know what I’m gonna do?” he asks in hissed Russian.

Yuri wants nothing more than to spit out a smarmy response even if he won’t hear it through the gag. Instead, he turns his head as far away from Isaak’s mouth as possible and finds a spot right by Otabek’s leg to stare at.

“I’m gonna shoot him,” Isaak whispers. A block of ice slides down Yuri’s throat. “I’m gonna put him down like the bitch he is. By tomorrow morning, when Nikiforov’s already been balls deep inside you, you’ll know that there’s no one in this world who gives a single shit about you.”

Horror must be evident on his face. He knows because he can feel tears threatening his eyes and whenever this happens, he can’t control his expression. In a daring act of defiance, Yuri snarls at Isaak – right now, he doesn’t care that he’s about to meet the man who’ll want him for pleasure. He would rather it be Viktor than Isaak, just so that Isaak never gets the satisfaction.

Isaak’s shock allows him to pull himself free for just a moment until he trips over the threshold and lands hard on the solid floor inside.

“You little shit.”

Yuri barely sees Isaak raise his hand because his eyes slam shut and he cowers on instinct.

“I think that’s enough,” comes Otabek’s voice. It is a welcome intervention.

The hit never lands, so Yuri dares to crack his eyes open. Otabek is already crouching down and wrapping strong fingers around Yuri’s upper arm.

“If you can’t control your slave, I’ll take him through.”

Isaak is obviously seething, but Yuri tries his damnedest to ignore the man in favour of getting to his feet. Otabek’s grip is firm. Not tight by any means whatsoever, though Yuri knows if he tries to break free it won’t work. But it’s clear the man is strong.

Wide corridors that have no windows are dim, but Yuri praises the fact that they are carpeted. His feet tingle with numbness that is slowly starting to ebb away. Walking on a harder surface would definitely be painful. He zeroes in on that weird burning sensation as the five of them walk in near silence. It’s easier than thinking about what’s going to happen. The only sound to hear as they move is Yuuri’s shallow, panting breaths. Yuri dares to peek over his shoulder.

The ill man looks like he’s going to collapse at any second.

It’s the longest walk of his life, and yet also the fastest one. They enter another room, lit much better than the corridors, and the first thing Yuri sees with his eyes downcast is another slave. A male who looks to be in his late twenties – a little old for a slave, typically. Yuuri is twenty-four and _that’s_ pushing it. There is a leather collar, dark red in colour, fastened around his neck. His shirt is a deep navy blue and has each button popped open to reveal his toned chest and abdomen. Though the slave is sitting, Yuri can tell that his black underwear is ridiculously form-fitting.

He can’t help the shiver that tickles his spine at the sight of the slave. He is clearly a fully-grown man – he even has brown stubble growing on his chin and upper lip – with a healthy body, but it still freaks him out. This man’s eyes are green. Perhaps more hazel than the blue-green of Yuri’s own, but they are green all the same with long, thick lashes framing them. His natural hair colour is clearly brown, but the tousled mop that sits above his undercut is a startling synthetic yellow colour. Not quite the silvery-blond that Yuri has, but again, still blond.

Yuri swallows.

Viktor Nikiforov has a type.

He makes an effort not to look at Viktor, who is sitting in a chair with one leg crossed over the other. It’s considered impolite. It’s considered _punishable_ if a slave looks up at another Master without permission. But Viktor draws him in instantly anyway.

Viktor Nikiforov is clearly a tall man, and is dressed casually. So casually that Yuri can tell he has toned muscles, particularly around his thighs. And his hair. Not grey, no, but silver and falling over one of his luminous blue eyes. In spite of his cold expression, there is a gentle kind of beauty and grace about him, but with an air of rigid authority. So when his eyes flick to meet Yuri’s for a split second, Yuri immediately looks down again.

They stop a few feet from where Viktor is seated. Otabek pushes all too lightly on his shoulders.

“On your knees,” he whispers.

Yuri startles. _Russian?_

He kneels down under Otabek’s persuasion, picks a spot on the patterned rug, and trains his eyes on it. At his side, Yuuri’s knees make a dull thud when Matvei pushes him down too. The Japanese man sways precariously.

When Viktor speaks, his voice is clear and smooth. Like Otabek, he speaks Yuri’s mother tongue.

“What is wrong with him?”

He must be referring to Yuuri.

“He’s…just had a bit of a fever recently,” Isaak says. What a liar. There is no point in trying to convince Viktor to take Yuuri anyway. Not when it’s clear which aesthetic he prefers in his slaves. “Still a great fuck, Mr. Nikiforov, I promise you. Very compliant. He’ll do whatever you tell him.”

Isaak moves to stand behind Yuuri and switches to English.

“Come on, whore. Lift your head so Mr. Nikiforov can get a look at you.”

Yuri is determined to burn a hole through the rug with his eyes. But when his friend lets out a muffled cry through the gag, he whips his head to the side to see. Isaak’s hand is fisted tightly in Yuuri’s black hair. He pulls until Yuuri is no longer on his knees but not quite on his feet. The sickly man has no strength in him to find his footing at all, so he whimpers and sobs through the fabric in and around his mouth.

“I can see him just fine from here.” Viktor sounds disdainful, and Yuri feels like he’s going to throw up.

Isaak clears his throat and releases Yuuri’s hair. The Japanese male must be at his limit, because he doesn’t fall back onto his knees. A quiet whine is barely heard through the gag when he crashes to the floor, his body crumpling so he’s lying half on his stomach and half on his side, knees curling up protectively.

Yuri suddenly doesn’t give a shit how many people are there that can hurt him. He jerks toward the male, planting his ass on the rug so he can comfortably bend over him slightly. The position feels protective, though he’d be stupid to presume he could protect Yuuri from these men. It eases all the awful feelings inside him a tiny bit.

And Yuuri shudders, muted gasps and whimpers pushing through the fabric of the gag. The raised red wound on his back is bleeding sluggishly. Yuri twists his hands, but the ropes securing them behind his back only dig into his skin more. He leans farther over Yuuri, pressing his forehead to the man’s shoulder as tears collect in his eyes. _It’s going to be okay_ , he wants to say. _You’re going to be okay._ It would be a bare-faced lie, but he wants to say it anyway.

“A bit of a fever, you say?” Viktor asks, bristling.

Isaak clears his throat nervously.

“Hmm,” Viktor hums. After a beat, he sighs. “What about the small one?”

Purely out of a reflex borne of the words of schoolyard bullies, Yuri snaps his head up to glare at the man. Viktor pays him no mind. That piercing stare is fixated on Isaak.

“Don’t know,” Isaak says, and it sounds a bit like he’s confessing to something. He nudges Yuuri with his foot. “This one’s the only one we’ve fucked.”

“Why is that?”

Isaak hesitates. “On their first day, he offered to take everything meant for the younger one. Said it was a deal. He’d do absolutely anything we wanted without argument or resistance. He said he _would_ argue and resist, if that’s what we wanted, to give us reason to punish him. As long as we left blondie out of it.” There is another prominent pause. “We thought it’d be fun to see how long he could last. It was a game. But he never gave in, so we never broke the deal.”

“How noble of you,” Viktor speaks. His voice is wintry.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri sees Isaak nod toward him.

“He’s a bit…wild, Mr. Nikiforov. It was never really worth the effort to train and break him. Not when we had a slave that already satisfied us. He’d probably not be worth your time eith-”

“And here I thought you enjoyed breaking in unruly slaves, Isaak,” Viktor cuts in. There is slight movement in the corner of Yuri’s eye from the man and his slave.

Silence like frail glass hangs in the air. It stretches on for an uncomfortable amount of time. Yuri does not dare look up. He can’t bear to see anyone, especially not Viktor who is probably staring him up and down, preparing to say it’s him he wants.

Eventually, though, it becomes too much. So he turns his head, still pressed against Yuuri’s shoulder, to look. He meets Viktor’s slave’s dark green eyes. The blond’s gaze is half-lidded as he rests his head against his Master’s leg, but he catches Yuri’s look and offers him a small smile. Yuri can’t tell if it’s meant to be comforting or sinister. Viktor’s pale fingers are threaded lightly through the slave’s curled blond locks. _That_ almost looks like a gesture of comfort. Briefly, Yuri wonders what Viktor is implying.

A clock ticks somewhere in the room. Yuri closes his eyes as his heart beats faster and faster and sweat start pooling in his lower back. Any second now, any second and their fates are going to be decided.

Viktor draws in a breath.

“I’ll take the dark-haired one.”

Panic seizes him. While Isaak is letting out a subtle sigh of relief, fire and ice are clawing up Yuri’s throat and threatening to tear him apart. He sits bolt upright with his eyes watering. He wants to scream, to fight, to plead, and at the same time, he just wants all of this to end.

He never thought Viktor would want someone as sick as Yuuri.

Reality is like a sledgehammer as it strikes him. This is it. This solidifies it. They’re going to be separated. The Japanese man is going to stay here and suffer one final session before he dies. And Yuri…Yuri is going back with Isaak and Matvei. Yuri is going to experience the hell that is about to kill his only friend.

Tears fall. Everything is crashing down all over again.

“You can remove his binds,” Viktor is saying. It sounds muffled. “I don’t think he’ll put up a fight. Take that cheap collar too. He’s not going to need it much longer anyway.”

That last sentence draws a quiet sob from Yuri.

Isaak shoves him aside and begins undoing the tight ropes on Yuuri’s weak wrists while Matvei removes the gag. Eyes closed and movements shaky, Yuuri reaches out – gasping for breath – to touch his pale thigh. And then he’s grounded again and the room isn’t spinning quite as much.

He bends his spine so he can lean down. Yuuri manages to find his face; presses a clammy hand to his cheek. Yuri leans into the contact, uncaring of their audience.

Bloodshot brown eyes barely open.

“Yurio,” he whispers. His voice is so quiet, Yuri can hardly hear him. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. You can do this.”

Furiously, Yuri shakes his head, arguing through his gag.

“Yurio, you’re a tiger,” Yuuri mumbles. “You’re fierce. You’re strong.”

There’s not a chance in hell anyone hears what Yuuri’s saying; not when Yuri himself is struggling to make sense of it.

Imagine his surprise when Viktor speaks again.

“And you can give the little one to my bodyguard.”

As he wrenches his head up, Yuuri’s hand falls gently to the rug. He stares at Viktor with wide, bleary eyes.

“B-But Mr. Nikif-” Isaak begins.

“Otabek tells me you were quite rude to him outside,” Viktor says, still so emotionless. “I think that calls for another apology, don’t you?”

“O-Of course, sir, but-”

“No arguments, Isaak. Or do you want to make me angry?” Isaak gulps audibly. “If you’ve never had him, I’m sure you won’t miss him. The little one stays. Untie him and remove his collar, then bring the paperwork forward.”

Elation makes Yuri’s heart soar at first. As Matvei unties his hand and he spits the saliva-soaked gag earnestly into Isaak’s hands, he feels light. As he rubs at his rope-burned wrists while Isaak angrily removes his collar, he feels free.

But only for a moment.

He has the gall to look up at Otabek again, and dread settles quickly back into his stomach. Otabek’s face reveals nothing: Yuri can’t tell what kind of a man he is. All he knows for certain is that the free feeling from a moment ago was fleeting and he will likely never feel it again.

There is definitely a weight off his shoulders, knowing he and Yuuri will be at least near each other. It’s not much though. He has the horrible hunch that Viktor has managed to wrangle both of them so that he has a replacement when Yuuri dies. The thought is awful.

Refusing to watch the official exchange and signing of papers, Yuri grasps the Japanese male’s hand and holds onto it for dear life. He has to check for a moment that the man is even still alive. Even unconscious, Yuuri helps keep him rooted.

In no time at all, Otabek is leading their old Masters from the room, and Yuri is left feeling utterly alone. Viktor is there, his slave is there, a passed out Yuuri is there. But he feels isolated.

He doesn’t notice that anyone has moved until he sees Viktor’s pale hand reaching for Yuuri.

Yuri doesn’t even think about it. It’s like a primal instinct. He bares his teeth, practically throws himself over the prone man’s body, squeezes his eyes shut until he sees stars.

“Don’t touch him!” he screams. He knows Viktor can speak Russian, but for some reason it comes out in English.

Suddenly he’s sobbing like a child. Hysterical, wet, trembling. Viktor is speaking. Warm hands rest on his shoulders as if to placate him, but Yuri refuses to be calmed. He doesn’t want anyone to touch Yuuri. Not right now. Not while he’s dying. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to force him when he can’t even keep himself awake. It’s not fair. Any second now, he expects the sting of a slap.

Yuri wants to go home. He wants to be home with his grandpa and for none of this to be real.

There’s a voice, a new one, talking gently at his side. This one has a distinct accent. He doesn’t give a shit what the voice is saying. He just wants everyone to back off and leave Yuuri alone for once.

Viktor’s hands creep closer again, and Yuri foolishly does the only thing he can think of. He slaps them away. It takes him all of three seconds to realise what he’s just done.

Mortification seeps out of Yuri’s pores. He is sorry, he’s so very sorry, and he shouts it over and over because why the fuck did he just do that? There is no deal with these people. His punishment will be severe. He’s terrified not only for himself, but for Yuuri too, who has no idea what is going on around him.

This is too much. It’s too much it’s too much it’s-

“P-Please,” Yuri sobs, gripping his friend’s body like it’s a lifeline. Truly, it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it completely. “Please! He can’t take any more! You’re going to kill him!” A fresh wave of tears burst forth at his admission. Saying things aloud always seems to make them more real. “He’s already dying, can’t you see that? He’s had enough! Please just leave him alone!”

There are still hands holding his shoulders, fingers gently rubbing. When his head is clear later, he’ll realise they belonged to Viktor’s slave. He doesn’t register there and then that Viktor can’t possibly cup his face with both hands _and_ hold his shoulders at the same time. When the Russian man’s hands, surprisingly careful, touch his cheeks, he is reduced to simply sniffling and quivering. Terror is stabbing at his heart with every fast beat.

Viktor lifts his gaze from the ground.

Yuri’s vision is blurred from all the tears, but he can see that for the first time, Viktor is showing emotion. He looks tired. At the same time, though, his blue eyes are open and warm. It’s too kind. Yuri doesn’t trust it for a second.

“I’m not going to hurt him, malyutka,” he says. “But he’s very sick. I need to move him so we can treat him. Will you let me move him?”

It doesn’t matter that this man with silver hair and gleaming blue eyes is _asking_. Yuri violently shakes his head out of the man’s hold. They’re not going to treat Yuuri. They’re lying. They’re lying and it’s all a game. A sick, twisted game.

People are speaking again. He hasn’t a single clue what they’re saying or who’s saying it. He doesn’t care.

When a pair of strong arms wrap around him in a restraining bear hug though, he opens his mouth and screams. The arms lift him. His feet don’t even touch the ground. He wriggles and writhes, he howls, he kicks with his feet, he even throws his head back only to have one of the arms hold it flush against what feels like a leather jacket.

The owner of the arms is strong. Strong enough to hold Yuri’s weight completely with little effort. He’s not being hurt, but he still fights tooth and nail and shrieks until his throat feels torn and bloody because all Yuuri has ever done for him is protect him. Now he needs to protect _Yuuri_. He has to. Has to at _least_ be there for him. But he isn’t being allowed to.

Whoever’s holding him turns. Yuri sounds like a banshee as he screeches his protests. He can’t see Yuuri. He can’t see what they’re doing to him. The man restraining him does not stop, instead walking out into a corridor and starting down it.

Yuri kicks and screams the whole way to no avail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh but who on EARTH was that handsome blond man at Viktor's feet? I'm excited for more of him tbh. Chris brings me happiness <3
> 
> Whole lot of tears and stuff in that chapter. Don't worry, Yurio, happier times are coming <3 You just have to find your chill.
> 
> Next chapter is in a couple of days, and we'll switch to Yuuri's perspective!


	4. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri Katsuki could be dying and his first priority would still be Yurio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Yuuri chapter! The perspectives will shift about a fair bit in this story, because I like to think it enhances the experience for readers and it's good to get a look in everyone's heads x3
> 
> Content warnings: rape/non-con (flashback), choking (flashback), panic attacks, lots of crying and feels

**Yuuri**

Through the burning in his blood and the white hot searing pain in his back, Yuuri feels like he is floating.

It’s hard to imagine why he is floating. Surely if he’s dead, there should be no pain? Only a moment ago, he felt like he was going to die.

He tries to remember what has happened. If he does that, he’ll be able to come to a logical conclusion about this. It’s hard, though. He knows only a couple of words and basic commands in Russian. Not nearly enough to be able to understand what had been said earlier. The only thing he can say with certainty is that he was picked. He isn’t sure why – he can only vaguely recall an explanation about owing someone an apology. Yurio was not very clear on the details.

Yurio!

Yuuri’s eyes fly open and he makes some botched attempt to sit up when he realises he’s staring at the ceiling. Someone grunts. He hits the floor hard, a sharp cry forcing its way up his throat. God, it hurts, it hurts so much and everything is so hot.

Now on solid ground, he tries to sit up again. Blessedly cool hands help him. They’re far too small to be Yurio’s. A flash of silver hair by his face has him intrigued.

Maybe it’s because he’s delirious, but he dares to look up into the eyes of someone he knows is his new Master. Blue eyes, so bright and vivid, stand out against a pale face. His hair is silver. But he’s not old. He seems young, possibly even close to Yuuri’s own age. And for a Master, he looks awfully concerned.

“Yurio…” Yuuri tries.

Where is he? What happened to him?

“Your friend?” the Master asks. His voice is smooth and soft. “He is fine. Isaak and Matvei gave him to my bodyguard. I assure you he is being well cared for.”

That doesn’t sound good at all. Yuuri can’t protect him from here. He opens his mouth to protest, plead, anything, but all he can manage is a strained groan of pain as dizziness washes over him. The room topples, and Yuuri goes with it. Those hands lower him to the carpeted floor.

“Are you all right?” the soft voice asks. “Did you hurt yourself when I dropped you?”

Yuuri mumbles out a no. He isn’t all right, but the fall hasn’t injured him.

“I’m going to pick you up again, all right? We need to get you into bed.”

 _Of course,_ Yuuri thinks as his new Master’s arms encircle and lift him bridal style. It’s always a bed. If it’s not, it’s the floor, or a table, or against the wall. It doesn’t even have to be a surface. They can do it standing up. At this point, Yuuri thinks he’s done it almost every way. A bed, he can handle, even if it feels like he’s going to pass out again at any second.

He’s struggling to remember what happened five minutes ago, but one thing he will never forget is the first time he was forced to stand for Isaak.

_His body aches. He’s only been here for two months or so, but his body **always** aches. Isaak and Matvei are brutal. Isaak is the worst though. He is strong and fast and without mercy. Yuuri’s body is always left visibly bruised and feeling fragile. There is no let-up. Every night, without fail, they find sadistic ways to pleasure themselves at his expense. Sometimes more than once._

_It hasn’t even been a week since he’s stopped crying about it. He realises there’s no use in crying. It wastes energy, it makes Yurio upset. Yuuri has to remind himself that he asked for this. He took control. When he doesn’t cry about what’s happened, it only makes him feel **more** in control._

_With a pained moan, he places his hands on the dining room table. On his way to the kitchen, he realised he doesn’t feel very much like eating. Maybe he should just go back upstairs and watch a movie with Yurio. The teenager has been in a bit of a mood these past couple of days._

_He jumps when a large body presses against him and the familiar smell of cigarette smoke blows hot against his ear. Already he can feel Isaak’s hardened member, concealed in his jeans, pressing against the skimpy underwear Yuuri has on. It’s the only thing he’s allowed to wear, and only when wandering the house._

_Yuuri cringes. His hips are still tender and his hole is still raw from last night’s session._

_“Pet, were you standing like that just to tease me?” Isaak asks huskily. He grinds himself hard against Yuuri who feels his bruised hip bones crunch against the edge of the table._

_“Do you want me to tease you, Master?” Yuuri prompts, staring at his own clenched fists. Sometimes he’s impressed with himself and how easily he can put on a show._

_“Hmm…”_

_Isaak finds a spot high on Yuuri’s neck, well above the collar, and sucks hard on the skin. Yuuri moans the way he’s been taught._

_“I want you to bend over this table and beg me to fill your ass with my cum, just like the slut you are.”_

_Honestly, it’s a fairly standard affair. Yuuri does as he is asked, laying his torso flat on the table and placing his hands behind his back. Isaak traps them there with his belt. When Isaak spreads his cheeks and comments on how red Yuuri’s hole is, Yuuri fakes a wanton moan. When Isaak steps back for a second to free himself from his jeans, Yuuri spreads his legs a little more. When Isaak begins rubbing his hard cock up and down the crevice of Yuuri’s ass, smearing precum against his irritated entrance, Yuuri pretends he wants it._

_He makes lascivious little whimpers, grinds back against the erection. His simulated begging is both verbal and physical. Phrases he never would have dreamed of saying two months ago spill from his lips, and Yuuri doesn’t even have the decency to blush any more. It doesn’t matter. He’s doing it for Yurio. Yurio who is still barely seventeen and too young to be faced with this cruelty._

_If Isaak thinks he is getting too quiet or not acting well enough, he delivers a harsh slap to Yuuri’s ass. Yuuri is not allowed to apologise for not being up to par. All he has to do is up his game._

_“I want to hear you,” Isaak says with a grin as he tugs sharply on Yuuri’s collar. It’s more painful than restrictive at first, even when he bends back as far as he can to take some of the slack off. “I want to hear you tell me how good it feels.”_

_Matvei is surprisingly careful when it comes to this. The meeker of the two Masters always takes the time to prepare Yuuri enough so that penetration is uncomfortable but manageable. Isaak is not like Matvei. Isaak likes to see people hurt._

_When he thrusts in right up to the hilt, the only lubrication Yuuri has is the precum leaking slowly from the end of Isaak’s cock. There is no prep. There are no fingers to stretch him, no thick lube to dull the pain. One second Yuuri is empty, the next he’s crying out in agony as his walls twitch around Isaak’s hardness, stretched too violently. He tore last night. He’s pretty sure it’s just happened again._

_Isaak sets a punishing pace, and oh how it burns. He’s kind of learned to tune out, if he’s being honest. Yes, it burns. Yes, his hips are digging painfully into the table, crashing against the edge with each rough thrust. And yes, Isaak is pulling the leather collar so tight with both hands that Yuuri can’t breath and it feels like something in his spine is about to snap. But he doesn’t feel it. Not **really**. He only has one foot in reality – enough to keep up his artificial praises._

_As Isaak approaches his climax, Yuuri remembers what he’s been told. He begs for his Master to spill his hot seed deep in his ass despite that he can’t breathe. Like a good slave._

_When Isaak is done, he pulls out with a sickening squelch, takes back his belt, and warns Yuuri not to get a mess on the floor. He wipes himself on Yuuri’s discarded underwear as Yuuri simply leans on the table and tries to catch his breath._

_He definitely doesn’t feel like eating now._

Yuuri doesn’t stop thinking about it until his new Master is placing him down on a large soft bed. Then his mind is on something else entirely. Something he was told by Matvei who rather patiently taught Yuuri how to be a good slave.

“Slaves don’t sleep on the bed,” is what he’d been told. “If a slave is on a bed, it means there’s work to be done.”

Although he wants nothing more than to collapse into the pliant duvet and sleep, he forces himself to sit up a little straighter. His Master’s hands linger as he does but they don’t actually touch him, almost like they are waiting to catch him should he fall. Yuuri takes the initiative. He has to show he’s willing. Just in case, he can’t fuck this one up.

With weak hands, he pulls on his Master’s wrist and suckles gently on the man’s long middle finger.

Anxiety hits him like a train when the man jerks his hand back.

“Pl-Please, Master,” he manages to wheeze out. “Let me satisfy you. Let me show you how good I can be.”

He reaches again, his back twinging hotly. He winces.

“No, no, don’t move,” the Master says. His voice is like rainwater. Calming, cooling. “You’re very unwell. I’d like you to lie on your stomach until the doctor gets here. Can you lie down for me?”

It’s the easiest order he’s ever had to follow. So easy that he doesn’t even question why this man is bothering with a doctor.

He flops down lifelessly, nowhere near the pillows, and closes his eyes. An airy blanket is thrown over his lower half before he feels a dip in the bed where the Master must have sat down.

“Will you tell me your name?”

“It’s Yuuri, Master,” he mumbles. It would be so easy to just drift away.

“Don’t go to sleep, Yuuri,” the Master commands gently. Why is he being so patient? “And please don’t call me that. I’m only your Master on paper. My name is Viktor. Call me Viktor.”

Yuuri manages to agree, though he isn’t quite sure he understands what he’s agreeing to. It sounds a little like the silver-haired man is babbling. Usually _Yuuri_ is the one babbling, if he’s anxious.

“What about your small friend? Did you call him Yurio? Tell me about Yurio.”

Why on earth would his Master want him to talk about Yurio? Why would he want him to talk about _anything_? Surely Yuuri’s fever is making him hallucinate or mishear. Still, he does as he’s told. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

“His name isn’t really Yurio,” Yuuri whispers. His voice is frighteningly weak to his own ears. “That’s just a nickname I gave him. His name is Yuri.”

“You both have the same name?” the Master asks. He sounds entertained. “What a coincidence!”

“We were…” He has to stop for breath. “…taken together. Sold together. Two for the price of one, they said.” A breathless little laugh slips out of Yuuri’s lips. “I was always…so happy to have him.”

There is a beat of silence. “So have you been friends for a long time?”

“Not really,” Yuuri answers, because he’s suddenly terrified of what falling asleep could mean when he realises sweat is pouring off him. “We met the…the same day we were taken. There was a party…at the ice rink. A party for adults. Yurio snuck in.” Yuuri chuckles weakly at that, and he’s certain he hears his Master stifle a laugh as well, but he’s probably delirious from how hot his body is. “I think they…must have been watching me…for a while. They knew to ask for a Yuuri over the intercom. We were all a…little surprised when Yurio showed up too.”

He almost wants to laugh, but the memory of the struggle is too dark to enjoy even if the looks on the thug’s faces were comical at the time.

“You know, Yuuri,” the Master begins. “Isaak told me what you did. Your sacrifice,” he clarified. “Why would you do something so selfless for someone you didn’t know?”

“Yurio…” Yuuri is _so_ tired. “Yurio was still…only sixteen at the time we were sold. He was so young. So small…even compared to how he is now. Even now he’s eighteen…it’s only in years. It wasn’t fair. I couldn’t let them break him.”

Panic is mounting inside him again despite how utterly exhausted he is. Embarrassingly, he feels salty tears start to roll down his face from beneath his closed lids. He doesn’t even have the strength to try to hold them back.

He’s lost his control.

“You’re a very brave person, Yuuri. And selfless. Yurio is very lucky to have you as a friend.”

It seems to hit him all at once that he’s just been ridiculously sincere with this new Master, this stranger, and he still has no idea where Yurio really is. All that registers is that he’s not here, and this man beside him is not Isaak or Matvei. There is no guarantee for his safety.

Yuuri is pushing himself up as fast as he can, searching for his Master’s eyes. Eye contact is Master-dependent – it’s always best to keep your eyes down until you know for sure. But Yuuri can’t think straight. He latches on to his Master’s shirt with clammy hands and nearly crumples because he’s not strong enough for this much exertion.

He either forgets or never heard it properly in the first place when the Master requested Yuuri call him by his name.

“Master,” he gasps. “Master, please, don’t hurt him! Don’t let your bodyguard- Don’t make Yurio go through that! He acts tough, but-” Yuuri thinks he is pathetic as he buries his head in his Master’s muscled thigh and cries. “I’ll do anything you ask. I can please you, your bodyguard, anyone you want, anything you want, please-”

“Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri,” the Master is saying.

He feels his face being pulled up so that he looks through tears into those warm blue eyes. It should calm him. When he’s panicking like this, that’s what Yurio does to calm him. But it’s not working. This man is a stranger. This man is his Master. Masters don’t care. Masters only cause pain.

Yuuri can’t breathe. There’s something twisted tight around his neck and chest, squeezing the air out of him, forcing him to pant. Black spots and blue lights are crawling into his vision. His legs and face are tingly, he can’t even feel the pain in his back any more.

“I-I ha-ve t-to protect him-m,” Yuuri stammers through his snot and tears.

“Oh, Yuuri,” the Master says. His eyes close briefly as if he’s in pain. Long, cool fingers comb through his hair and tickle the back of his neck. “Yuuri, brave, strong Yuuri, you _have_ protected him. You’ve done so well. He is safe now, Yuuri. I would never dream of hurting him, and neither will Otabek. He’s safe here. You _both_ are. I promise. _Obeshchayu_.”

Desperation has his heart gripped like a vice. He wants so badly to believe the Master’s words, but he can’t. Masters can’t be trusted. Masters should _never_ be trusted. What if this is all some elaborate game? Yuuri refuses to let himself fall for it. It will only hurt more if he believes such mind games.

He doesn’t realise he’s turned away from the man and is shaking his head. Only when the Master speaks again does he register he’s reverted to rapid, completely incoherent Japanese.

“Sshh, sshh,” the Master soothes, continuing to pet Yuuri’s hair with one hand and pressing gently on his face with the other. “Yuuri, it’s all right. Please look at me.”

If a Master tells Yuuri to do something, he does it. This Master looks agonised.

“Yuuri,” he begins. Yuuri doesn’t think Isaak and Matvei have said his name this many times combined. “It’s very clear to me how much you and Yurio mean to each other. I swear you won’t be separated for long. As soon as the doctor has been and gone, I’ll make sure he’s back at your side, all right? Then you can check for yourself that he’s unharmed.”

At some point, maybe by morning, Yuuri knows it’s all going to come crashing down. This friendly, fake Master is going to disappear and be replaced with someone else. Someone he is more accustomed to. It’ll all shatter. He’ll be pinned down again and used the way most slaves are.

Yes, it will all shatter. But it’ll be what Yuuri expects.

For now, though… For now he allows his exhausted and feverish body just a moment. After so many months of constant abuse with no breaks, he lets himself take this time, fleeting as it may be.

With an exhausted sob, he puts his head back in his Master’s lap and shivers pleasantly when those delicate fingers trace shapes on the back of his neck. Real or not, the ministrations are soothing. Tension begins a steady trickle out of his body. He squeezes the shirt tighter for just a second.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> r u cry yet
> 
> I dunno, something about this chapter really got me in my feels. Yuuri, you precious bean <3 Someone hug him.
> 
> This is the last chapter that I have finished so updates will slow down a bit from here. The next chapter will also hopefully be Yuuri's perspective, but we'll see. I guarantee nothing xD


	5. Struggling to Understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Yuuri wants to do is please his new Master. Why won't the man let him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not extra happy with how this chapter is written, but I decided to stop messing with it and post it anyway!
> 
> Content warnings: mention of previous sensory deprivation in a non-consensual sexual context, brief past force-feeding, brief past non-consensual use of a belt for corporal punishment, brief past non-consensual bondage, medical exams, pain, past torture with a knife, crying again, anxiety.
> 
> I'd also like to say that Yuuri's state of mind, especially while he's all septic, is quite unhealthy. So there's a warning I'm not really sure how to put into words that comes with this. He still very much believes he has a job to do is all I'll say.

**Yuuri**

“Yuuri, keep your eyes open.”

He groans. The Master has stopped combing his hair with his long fingers, and now the man won’t even let him sleep. All he wants to do is sleep. Sleep promises cool bliss and painlessness. If he sleeps, everything will be all right. And if his Master combs his hair again, that would be all right too.

“But…I’m so tired,” he mumbles.

“I know you are, Yuuri, but you have to stay awake,” comes the Master’s gentle voice. “You can sleep after the doctor’s been. She should be here soon.”

Somewhere in Yuuri’s fogged mind, he _knows_ he has to stay awake. But it’s hard. Nearly everything in him is telling him to let go. The promise of relief is so deliciously tempting, it’s a wonder he’s managing to resist it right now. He could close his eyes and simply float away. It’d be like sinking into a warm bath, he thinks. Resting on a bed of air. So comfortable, so painless…

Though he has almost no energy to speak of, he does his best to keep himself awake.

“She should be here soon…” he repeats, because talking keeps him focused a little.

“Yes,” the Master says. “I thought you’d…be more comfortable with a female doctor.”

The Master misinterpreted him, Yuuri realises, but he doesn’t correct him. It would be rude to do so. Instead, he focuses on the words. A female doctor is coming because the Master thought Yuuri would be more comfortable with a woman. It touches him somewhere in his chest – how considerate. Yuuri hasn’t seen a doctor for anything in years, and the fact that so much care is being taken now inspires him a little. At some point, he is going to show his gratitude to his Master.

For now, all he can do is whisper “that’s nice” and fight not to succumb.

“You said you met Yurio at an ice rink,” the Master says in a voice that is far too loud. “Do you like skating?”

Yuuri doesn’t see what that has to do with anything, but he answers because it’d be disobedient not to, but closes his eyes.

“Mm,” he hums in response. “I’ve been skating…since I was little. I always wanted to do it professionally…” His voice is breathless. “But my family…couldn’t afford coaching fees. They could barely afford to pay for my lessons… When I got older, two of my friends married and took over the local rink. So I could skate any time I wanted. We came to Russia to watch the nationals…I don’t remember how long ago that was. I’d have to ask Yurio. He’s good with dates.”

A beat of silence.

“Does Yurio skate too?”

“He competed in the nationals,” Yuuri mutters. “As a junior. His coach told him he wasn’t ready to compete in the…um…senior division, so he was angry. I think that’s why he snuck into the party. Rebelling.” He chuckles quietly.

“It must have been a while since either of you have been on the ice,” the Master says, sounding thoughtful.

Yuuri makes a noise of agreement.

“Yuuri, when you’re well enough, the first thing we’re going to do is take you and Yurio to the ice rink.” The man sounds ridiculously excited now. It takes Yuuri by surprise, and he manages to blink his blurry eyes open and stare up at him. “You can tell me your skate size, and I’ll make sure they’re here in plenty of time. It’ll be wonderful! We can skate for as long as you’d like, we can get hot chocolate afterward. We’ll all go, it’ll be a fun day out!”

He can’t help the little laugh that slips out. Maybe if his body wasn’t so painfully hot, he wouldn’t laugh – laughing at his Master sounds like a death sentence. Right now, though, his head doesn’t seem to be working properly. Laughing does not register as being dangerous. It’s just a natural response. It feels strangely good.

“You’re weird,” he tells his Master.

An amused eyebrow quirks up before Yuuri closes his eyes again.

“Am I?” the Master asks.

Yes, Yuuri thinks. Very strange. Why is ice skating the first thing they’re going to do when Yuuri is better? Why not sex? Unless he’s somehow misunderstood. Yuuri knows that lots of Masters aren’t opposed to the idea of public, yet discreet sex. He’s never experienced it personally. Isaak and Matvei always kept him and Yurio locked inside. Earlier was the first time in a long time since Yuuri has been outside. And he’s already starting to forget it.

But if it’s sex at the ice rink his new Master wants, that’s what he will get. Yuuri will give it to him gladly, he thinks. After all, he’ll need to show his gratitude for all this patience and compassion somehow. And this Master seems like he might be gentle. Maybe Yuuri won’t even have to act.

Wouldn’t that be something?

The silence doesn’t get to stretch on for too long: there’s a quiet knock at the door before it’s pushed open with a click. Yuuri can’t see who it is past the Master.

“Phichit’s just letting the doctor in,” a voice says. It has an accent, vastly different from the Russian he’s so used to hearing now. “Should I send her straight up?”

“Please,” the Master says. “Thank you, Chris.”

“Who…?” Yuuri starts to ask.

He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask questions, but anxiety is bubbling away in his stomach at the thought of someone else being there whom he doesn’t know about. Not knowing, not being aware, is the most awful thing. With Isaak and Matvei, they quickly discovered his weakest point. Being blindfolded and gagged, having his ears covered and his body strapped completely immobile: those times were the only times he ever considered giving in. Telling them to stop.

Because not being aware…not being aware is the scariest thing.

The Master glances at him before turning back to the door and beckoning whoever is there.

A man with a tousled mop of blond hair on the top of his head and long, dark lashes framing his eyes comes into view. His expression is ridiculously friendly, but his presence still sends Yuuri’s nerves into a frenzy. It’s a new face, and an unexpected one. Yuuri’s muscles tense.

The blond crouches at the side of the bed. It makes Yuuri feel a tiny bit better, but not by much, as he stares into hazel eyes that are more green than brown.

“Yuuri, this is Christophe Giacometti,” the Master says softly. “He lives here.”

Yuuri briefly wonders if this is another slave, but there is no collar around his neck. If he’s not a slave, he must be a Master. Fear prickles at Yuuri’s skin. Of course having this new Master isn’t all what it seemed to be. Of course there’s a catch. Of _course_ there’s someone else who just can’t wait to sink their teeth into him.

“You don’t have to be afraid of Chris,” his Master promises. Yuuri doesn’t know if he believes him. “Later, you can meet him properly. For now, I think-”

The man – Chris – lifts his finger and presses it boldly against the Master’s lips. And to Yuuri’s surprise, the silver-haired man stops talking. Chris smiles down at Yuuri before crossing his arms and resting his chin on them.

“It’s nice to meet you, Yuuri,” he says with that odd accent. “We can chat more soon, but I thought you might like to hear an update on your friend before the doctor gets here and starts poking and prodding.”

“Yurio?” Yuuri gasps. “Where is he?”

“Currently in the kitchen, emptying the cupboards of all the good junk food,” Chris says with a zealous giggle. “And polishing off the last few mouthfuls of Viktor’s favourite vodka.”

That makes Yuuri flinch, but his Master lets out a light chortle as well. “Glad to hear he’s making himself at home,” the man says, sounding genuine.

“I want to see him,” Yuuri whines, searching for something to hold on to. A cool hand covers his. “Please let me see him.”

“After the doctor has been, Yuuri,” his Master says gently. “I promise. Chris?”

The blond man gives Yuuri one last warm smile before exiting the room. Yuuri doesn’t immediately understand why he starts crying, all he knows is the Master squeezes his hand for a moment and rubs his thumb soothingly across the feverish skin there.

“Why can’t I see Yurio now?” he asks, sounding a lot like a four-year-old.

“I think it would be too…busy in here for the doctor if Yurio is with you,” the Master says. “But don’t worry. You won’t be alone. I’ll stay right here with you until your friend arrives.”

There’s a degree of comfort to be taken from those words, but Yuuri mostly just feels worse. He can’t even remember why a doctor is coming. For once, though, he wants his privacy but at the same time, he doesn’t want to be left alone because he’s terrified and things are beginning to make less sense. His brief encounter with Chris is slipping from his mind faster than he can draw in breath – truly a feat considering how quickly he’s breathing. What did he want, again? Yuuri is sure he was told something important.

Damn it, he just wants to sleep. They never let him sleep. It doesn’t matter how exhausted he is – be it from lack of sleep, the late hour, or from too much exertion. It never matters to them, as long as they get what they want.

And if he’s _really_ tired, they have ways of keeping him awake.

_Yuuri struggles not to inhale the hot coffee as they force mouthful after mouthful of it down his throat._

_He shrieks when Isaak’s belt comes down hard on his ass, his thighs, his back. The sharp cracking sound it makes somehow intensifies his distress._

_His muscles are screaming as he dances about on his tiptoes. The metal cuffs dig painfully into his wrists, and his shoulders ache and burn and beg for relief._

“Yuuri, the doctor is here.”

Yuuri is completely out of it for the majority of the consultation. The doctor – a woman with a soft face and curly red hair – speaks in a mix of Russian and English. She makes comments in Russian, to which his Master replies “English, if you please”, then she repeats it in English for Yuuri’s own benefit. He struggles to comprehend her no matter what language she uses.

She does a series of tests. Yuuri is rolled carefully onto his side and a cold stethoscope is pressed against his chest, and then at various points on his back. The doctor asks him to cough. It’s a pitiful sound that comes out when he tries. She presses her fingers against his wrist and makes a quiet comment about his pulse – it’s thready, she says. Yuuri doesn’t know what that means but it sure it’s not normal. A cuff covered with Velcro is wrapped snugly around his upper arm. When it inflates, Yuuri yelps and tries to tear his arm away. It takes his Master a full three minutes to calm him and explain the doctor is just trying to measure his blood pressure. In his infected state, Yuuri’s mind doesn’t see this as a good thing. He doesn’t even hear whatever the doctor says about the reading she has taken because a moment later, she has pressed something deep into his ear. It beeps before she removes it. He hears something about a high temperature.

The woman seems to spend a long time assessing him, touching various points on his body to check for reflexes and asking him questions he doesn’t know the answers to. He manages to tell her he wears glasses – or at least he used to wear them. It’s been a long time since he’s seen anything clearly. He doesn’t remember the doctor’s response to this news. She tries to ask him questions about his body. Personal, intimate questions that he could never answer because for a long time, he’s tried to ignore those parts of himself that only cause pain. He becomes irritated when she won’t leave the subject alone, until she explains she’s trying to determine if he has any symptoms of a sexually transmitted disease. That stops him. He’s never considered that might be a possibility.

Yuuri quietly tells her he’s sure he doesn’t have any symptoms to worry about. He doesn’t know. But he’s sure he’s clean. The woman mutters something about checking again in the near future.

They – the doctor and his Master – roll him slowly back onto his stomach, and then he feels deft fingers on his lower back. The digits press hard in certain places, but it’s not painful, just uncomfortable. He hears a slightly relieved affirmation that there’s nothing wrong with his kidneys but he’s certainly dehydrated.

Then the fingers move higher. He feels them push ever so slightly around the edges of the white hot fire there.

Yuuri screams.

With strength he didn’t realise he possessed, Yuuri launches himself away and almost topples off the bed. That hurts too, but anything, _anything_ to get away from that agony, that searing terrible torture. He’s writhing, fighting against hands that are either trying to soothe him or keep him down, and he’s still screaming. It hurts, it hurts so much, he begs them to stop, please don’t touch it, oh God, it’s pounding and throbbing and _burning-_

_“Tell me how it feels, slave.”_

_Another sharp, slow drag of the knife along his back. Yuuri howls, tears streaming down his face, but he can’t get away though he thrashes with all his might against Isaak’s heavy weight on his hips._

_“Come on, bitch, use your words!”_

_The knife twists. Yuuri can’t use his words, he can’t even concentrate, he’s forgotten what words are-_

_“It hurts, oh God, please stop!” he wails. “Master, please! Please!”_

_“Hmm,” Isaak says. “Tell you what, slave. If you’ll head across the hall and fuck your little blond friend, I’ll stop.”_

_Yuuri shakes his head wildly. He’ll never, ever-_

_Hot, sharp pain again. Yuuri is hysterical._

_“That’s what I thought.”_

A panting, distressed mess, Yuuri eventually calms down when he realises no one is trying to hurt him. They’re just trying to stop him causing further injury to himself. His Master is whispering quiet things in his ear, hushing him, trying to comfort he thinks. He blinks his tears away, and his Master looks like he might start spilling his own any second.

It takes him a little while to realise that the doctor is talking to him.

“W-What?” Yuuri whimpers, trembling.

“The doctor would like to take some blood for testing, Yuuri,” his Master says. “Is that all right?”

Why is he _asking_? He doesn’t have to ask. He’s a Master. He just has to give the order.

Yuuri nods his head and stretches out his arm as best he can. The sharp scratch of the needle and the tight constriction of the tourniquet are nothing compared to the flames licking his back. Once upon a time, he was scared of needles.

“Yuuri?” the doctor says. He has a hard time finding her with his eyes. When he does, she holds up a thin packet. “I also need to take a swab of your wound. You’ll need strong antibiotics at first, but a wound swab will let me know if other antibiotics will work better. I’ll be very careful. You might not even feel it.”

He warily eyes up the Q-tip that’s held closer to his face, but makes a general sound of agreement. The doctor is right – he doesn’t really feel it. When she turns away and begins rummaging through her things, the Master leans over him a little.

“You’re doing very well, Yuuri,” he praises. “We’re almost done.”

“All right,” the doctor says. “Yuuri, I’d like to insert a couple of IVs, if that’s all right. You’ll need IV antibiotics to start with, then once you’re feeling a little better, there’s a chance we’ll move on to oral treatment. I also think you’re very dehydrated, so I’d like to give you some fluids as well, at least until you’re strong enough to start drinking again on your own.”

“Okay,” Yuuri croaks out. Her words sound all garbled, so he can’t really understand what she’s saying. But his Master seems to want him to be healthy and agreeing with the doctor seems the best way to do that.

“I’m also going to have to clean your wound,” she continues. “The antibiotics will only work if the outside is kept clean as well.”

His wound?

Oh, yeah.

“Okay,” he says again, dreading how much that is going to hurt.

“And the last thing I’d like to do before I leave is…” She pauses for a second. “An internal examination.”

Yuuri tenses. “An…internal-?”

“I need to check to make sure there are no other problems being hidden by the wound on your back,” the doctor explains patiently. “It will only take a few minutes, and I’ll only be using one finger.”

“I-I don’t…do I have t-to?”

He’s chancing his luck, he knows. If his Master wants him to have this examination done, he has no choice but to have it done. If this is all some kind of sick, elaborate game and he’s about to be used again under the guise of it being an internal exam, he won’t have any option but to take part.

It makes him shiver. Whether it’s a real medical examination or not, he doesn’t want anyone to touch him there. He doesn’t want anyone’s finger searching for anything.

“She’ll be very gentle, Yuuri,” his Master promises. “And if it’s painful or just too much for you, she’ll stop immediately. But it’s for the best that we make sure you don’t have any underlying problems.” The man considers something for a moment. “If you’d like me to leave the room while she works, I’ll go.”

Yuuri shakes his head and finds his Master’s pants leg to grip on to.

“N-No,” he sniffles. “Stay. It-It’s fine. I’ll do it.”

The Master helps roll him back onto his side for the exam, and does not let go of his hand the entire time. It’s not painful. Not really. Just uncomfortable, with the occasional sting as the doctor pushes her lubricated and gloved finger in and presses against his walls to feel for anything abnormal. All in all, it’s surprisingly easy not to get worked up about it. But when the doctor slides her finger out slowly, he still lets out a sigh of relief.

His Master squeezes his hand again.

He has a significant number of tears. This comes as no surprise to him. He’s so tired when the doctor begins explaining how to manage and treat them that he doesn’t listen. At least until she changes the subject slightly.

“Now, I know this is the last thing on your mind right now,” she says. “But I have to tell you anyway. Until your tears have healed and your wound is better, it’d be wise not to have sex.”

Yuuri flinches. Sex…it’s been a good while since he’s had any kind of pleasurable sex, he thinks. Whether his body is healed or not, he knows he’ll never enjoy sex again. Even if he wants it.

He hopes at least his Master is listening. It’s his duty as a slave to provide his Master with whatever kind of pleasure he wants, but he _prays_ that the man will leave his ass alone until everything is healed. After all, Yuuri can still use his hands, his mouth, anything the Master wants. As soon as he’s able, he’ll prove it.

The doctor sets about inserting his IVs and attaching them to bags of liquid that are hung on poles at either side of the bed. She cleans out his wound – something that’s surprisingly a lot more soothing than it is painful – and tells him she’s not going to cover the wound right now because it would trap the infection and she doesn’t have the appropriate dressings with her.

She talks to his Master in Russian, so Yuuri takes this as his cue to relax at last. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, at least, so that he can watch the doctor explain something to his Master and hand over boxes of what is probably medication. His Master nods, agrees, shakes the doctor’s hand. The red-haired woman says a friendly goodbye to Yuuri before she leaves.

“Well done, Yuuri,” his Master says, kneeling on the floor by the bed so Yuuri can see him. “You did so well. You’ll be better in no time! Now, I know the doctor said you can’t have any solid foods at the moment, but if you’re hungry, I can make-”

“I’m not hungry,” Yuuri whispers, shaking his head. “I just- I just want to see Yurio. Y-You promised.”

The Master freezes for all of half a second in which Yuuri is sure he’s just made a huge mistake. Then the man smiles kindly and pulls out his phone.

“I did promise,” he affirms. “I’ll text Otabek to bring him here.”

He punches some words into his phone and puts it back in his pocket. Those cool fingers come up to tickle the back of Yuuri’s hand pleasantly. Yuuri stares at them.

“Master,” Yuuri murmurs. The fingers still. “Just because I can’t…have sex…that d-doesn’t mean I can’t…give you pleasure.”

He dares to take hold of those long fingers, drawing them in close to his mouth. They don’t move as he presses delicate little kisses along the knuckles and the tips. But when he reaches out to lick one with his tongue, the hand curls into a fist which effectively prevents him from continuing.

“No, Yuuri,” the Master says firmly.

Yuuri flinches.

“B-But why not?” he whines. “You’ve b-been so…kind and patient. Why c-can’t I…?”

“Yuuri, you misunderstand,” the Master groans. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I should have explained.”

“W-What…?”

“You don’t have to do that anymore,” he says. “You don’t have to keep forcing yourself or pretending. I’m _not_ your Master. I’m just Viktor. I’ll try to be a friend, a brother, whatever you’d like, but regardless of what it says on a piece of paper, I’m not your Master, Yuuri.”

“I-I don’t…understand.” He can feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “Then who…?”

“No one.” Those bright blue eyes are hard. “No one is your Master. You’re not a slave any longer, Yuuri. You’ll never wear a collar again. You don’t have to…to appease me.”

“But why did you-?” It’s so confusing. Whatever’s going on…it has to be a dream. “Why are we-?”

“Yuuri, I took you and your friend because I wanted to help you,” the man explains. “I took you both because I’ve seen what Isaak and Matvei do to slaves, and there was an opportunity in front of me to stop it. I took you both because I had the chance to save you both. Not because I want anything in return. Not because I want a slave. Do you understand?”

“B-But Master-”

He’s crying again, and he can’t stop it. This all has to be a lie, it has to be a game. It can’t be real. It’s far too good to be true.

“Viktor,” the man interrupts. “Yuuri, please call me Viktor. Try to say my name.”

Yuuri does. He really does try, but all he can get out is the first letter before he’s bursting out into loud sobs and is shaking all over again. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s a lie, Masters always lie, Masters must never be called anything other than “Master”.

“I can’t, I can’t!” he cries, covering his face with one hand. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I-”

“Yuuri, it’s okay,” comes that soothing voice. “Sshh, please calm down. If you can’t call me by my name, that’s fine. You can call me Master. For as long as you need to. But please, even if you believe I’m your Master for the rest of your life, I want you to try to call me Viktor. Will you try?”

Yuuri manages a shaky nod. Whether or not he means it is a different story, but agreeing might mean his Master will drop it.

A buzzing sound has his Master pulling out his phone. He lets out a sigh of relief.

“Yurio will be here soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Yuuri certainly has a long way to go.
> 
> So the next chapter will be back to Yurio, but I'm afraid it won't be the anticipated reunion just yet! We still have to see how Otabek's dealing with this new handful that's under his care, after all :P
> 
> The feedback I'm getting on this fic is blowing me away, you guys are wonderful!


	6. Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri is aggressive, and Otabek's a bit of an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally back to Yuri :P We can see how he's been coping with Otabek. Or rather, how Otabek's been coping with HIM.
> 
> Content warnings: Yurio's foul language, mild violence, very brief mention of rape, and awkwardness.

**Yuri**

Somewhere along the way, Yuri calms down. Or at the very least he stops screaming and fighting.

The culprit behind his forcible removal from the room turns out to be Otabek, who sighs with relief when Yuri quiets, and places him back on his feet. The Kazakh asks him stoically if he’s going to behave. Yuri, red faced and sweaty, boldly tells him to go fuck himself. He half expects a strike from his new Master for that. It never comes, though.

No, instead, Otabek does the unexpected. He shrugs off his leather jacket and offers it to Yuri. For all of half a second, Yuri is dumbstruck because he rarely notices when he’s not wearing a lot of clothes these days. Then he turns his nose up at the jacket and tells Otabek to shove it up his own ass if he wants to make Yuri feel better. Again, he’s kind of expecting some lewd comment – a warning for what’s to come – but Otabek doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t emote at all. Just folds the jacket over one of his arms, take’s Yuri’s wrist in that firm but gentle grip, and continues on through the building.

He has absolutely no idea why he’s stopped screaming: he doesn’t feel calm at all. Yuuri. Where is Yuuri? What are they doing to him? It’s a mantra in his head; if he thinks about his own situation, he might have to admit aloud that he’s terrified. So terrified that he does not dare ask Otabek about Yuuri or where they’re going or what the man’s plans are. Not that he’s sure if he wants to know.

Yuri stops thinking _Please don’t hurt him_ and instead switches to _If they fucking dare touch him-_ and it helps a little. Realistically, he doesn’t have a single hope of doing anything to these people when they inevitably _do_ hurt Yuuri. But the aggression, even trapped behind his lips, does wonders for his anxiety. What was once a problem for him now serves as an effective coping mechanism. Who would have thought?

They go up a set of wide stairs (of course they do, this place is more like a fancy hotel than a house) and down more corridors. Yuri doesn’t speak a word until Otabek pushes him into a room – a bedroom, he notes – and steps in after him. He hears the lock click but sees Otabek slip the key into his front pocket.

Yuri’s throat goes dry.

“I will _never_ call you ‘Master’,” he snarls. He wonders if Otabek can hear the fear in his voice. It’s so stupid to talk like this, but Yuri is stubborn. He won’t go down easily. “And if you think I’m going to spread my legs like some brainwashed little submissive, you can-”

Otabek moves suddenly and Yuri’s words die in his throat. He flinches back.

But Otabek walks right past him and into an en suite. Frozen, Yuri listens to him run a tap and splash some water about. He hears him let out a haggard sigh. Being ignored isn’t what he expected.

He takes in his surroundings, foolishly mapping out escape routes. There’s the door, but it’s locked and Otabek has the key. Then there’s the window. It’s massive and upon further inspection, Yuri realises it’s actually a set of glass paned doors that lead out onto a balcony. He wonders how easy it would be to bolt outside now and drop. Maybe not right this second, because as far as he knows, Yuuri is still alive. But he certainly won’t be alive for too much longer, and then Yuri will have no reason to sit placidly.

That thought makes a lump balloon in his dry throat. Damn it, his heart won’t calm down. He can almost _see_ it palpitating against his ribs.

Otabek comes back into the room, patting his face dry with a small towel which he throws into a laundry basket when he’s done. Then he’s coming closer. Far too close. He looks like he doesn’t even see Yuri, but his hand is reaching out, and Yuri’s mounting panic takes over completely because he is _not_ going to be compliant.

Yuri doesn’t just jerk back. He doesn’t just lash out physically, or yell his protests. No, he does something far more idiotic. He _knows_ Otabek is a bodyguard and he has more chance of coming out on top in a fight with a gorilla, but he does it anyway because all he can think about is resisting.

He jumps at the man.

With cat-like reflexes, Yuri wraps his legs around Otabek’s waist and claws ferociously at his face. Otabek swears in Russian, stumbles several feet back, and crashes to the floor. Yuri is proud of his own strength.

A tanned hand comes up to push Yuri’s face away, so he sinks his teeth into two of the fingers and Otabek yelps. Yuri does not let go of his digits. Latched on, he follows Otabek’s hand down, and then the Kazakh is squeezing his jaw hard enough to make him let go. It’s all instinct. Primal. Yuri dives for the man’s exposed neck with his hands. He _squeezes_ as hard as he can. Otabek growls out a warning.

He tries to keep his head as far out of the man’s reach as possible, but Otabek is bigger than he is. The heel of one of his hands comes into contact with the underside of Yuri’s chin. Suddenly his teeth clack together and head has snapped up, he’s slamming hard into the ground, his fingers having automatically released the neck they were trying to force life from.

Otabek is far more intimidating when he’s angry. It’s the first emotion he’s shown, and it stops Yuri’s heart dead in his chest. He scrambles backwards until he hits something solid then wildly kicks out. He hits a spot just below Otabek’s knee. It makes the man stumble. Just long enough for Yuri to leap to his feet.

He’s like an animal as he searches around for something – anything. But Otabek has no guns or knives lying around, nothing that he can easily use as a weapon, so he makes a split second decision and runs for the balcony doors. Before he even reaches the handle, Otabek’s muscled arms grab him tight around the waist. His arms are pinned tight against his sides. Yuri thrashes wildly, kicking back, trying to drop his weight, throwing his head to try to heatbutt the man.

Otabek holds fast.

Yuri shrieks in frustration.

In all his writhing, he kicks out against the glass and sends the pair of them stumbling backwards again. He hears the wind leave Otabek’s chest as he falls a second time before he realises the constricting arms have loosened.

They roll, fighting for dominance. Otabek is collected and precise, but Yuri is almost rabid as he scratches and punches any bare skin he can get his hands on. When Yuri finally runs low on energy and Otabek is straddling him, keeping him pinned with his weight alone, he screams. In frustration, in terror, he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t stop. He continues trying to hit the bodyguard until the man snatches both of his wrists and slams them down at either side of Yuri’s head. Instead, he manically kicks his legs and bucks his hips. Yuri is under no illusion that he’s going to win. But he can’t just lie back and take it.

He bears his teeth. _Like a tiger_ , Yuuri would say.

“You better fucking kill me,” he hisses. “Because I would rather _die_ than let you bend me over and rape me.”

There it is. That’s his reality. His future. Bleak, painful, and completely out of his control.

It’s too much. It’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want to end up like Yuuri. He doesn’t want to have to do the things he knows Yuuri has done. What he wants is to be back home with his grandpa in that shitty little apartment eating pirozhki like he wants to get fat. He wants to be lying on his bed playing some childish videogame while his cat curls up against him and his grandpa’s TV show is sounding through the thin walls.

Violent sobs suddenly make his whole body tremble, and hot tears collect and spill over before he even has a chance to realise he’s crying. So afraid, he’s so, so afraid. Yuuri isn’t here to protect him. He’s on his own. He can’t fight against someone like Otabek forever. It’ll only hurt more if he tries. The pain is mostly what he’s scared of. He doesn’t want it to hurt, but he knows it will. Yuri’s never liked being told what to do. If this happens, it’ll be the last shreds of his control gone.

Otabek doesn’t say anything, but he _does_ let go of Yuri’s wrists. Yuri immediately presses his palms to his face, trying to hide the truth about how fearful he is from his new Master. The man who is about to take everything he has left from him.

The crying doesn’t stop for several long minutes. All Yuri’s aware of is his own body and that Otabek is…standing up?

“I…” Otabek says. His baritone voice is lighter somehow. Forcefully kind as Yuri shakily pushes himself into a sitting position. “I’m not going to…rape you. I’d never do that. You’re not a slave here.”

“Bullshit,” Yuri snaps through his hand, and immediately flinches to await a punishment.

“You don’t have to be so scared.”

His voice is so close. Yuri can see him between his fingers. He’s crouching down, his dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on Yuri.

“Cut the shit,” Yuri begs. “If you’re going to do it, just do it.”

“I swear I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then get away from me!”

It’s an intrepid move on his part, to make a demand of a Master with such hostility. His mind isn’t where it’s supposed to be though. And Otabek, much to Yuri’s surprise, takes several steps back so that he’s not crowding the blond.

“Sorry,” he says, almost sounding sincere, as Yuri gets to his feet. “I didn’t mean to…” Otabek makes a non-committal gesture. “You _did_ attack me first.”

“You came at me!”

“I was reaching for my _phone_ ,” Otabek says, and he turns to where Yuri was standing to snatch up a sleek black smartphone.

Yuri’s mouth falls open as his brows furrow.

“I’m sorry, I should have warned-”

“Yeah, you fucking should have!” Yuri rages.

Honesty isn’t something he’s familiar with nor does he particularly like it or believe it’s the best policy like Yuuri does, but he has to be truthful with himself: he’s kind of embarrassed. Of course Otabek was reaching for a phone. He didn’t even have his eyes on Yuri. Which means that Yuri completely overreacted, and he can feel his cheeks warming as he crosses his arms over his chest, feeling suddenly a lot more naked than he really is.

“I promise I’ll tell you if I’m going to be doing anything, okay?” Otabek slides his phone into his back pocket. “I don’t want you to feel nervous.”

“Why?” Yuri demands, glaring. “You want me to relax so I’ll give myself to you _willingly_?” He snorts. “Isaak was better at those games than you’ll ever be.”

“You…” Otabek pauses, eyeing Yuri up not like he’s a piece of meat, but like he’s looking for something. He seems to choose his next words carefully. “You are not a slave here.”

Yuri opens his mouth to argue. Nothing that is coming from Otabek is believable in the slightest. It’d be sweet if he wasn’t a slave, but the fact remains that he _is_ and now that he’s been forced into this life, that is all he will ever be. Yuri’s not _completely_ stupid – he knows the law here in Russia. Once a slave, always a slave.

“If that’s true, why did you stop me from leaving?”

“It’s freezing outside and we’re surrounded by the forest. If the drop didn’t break your ankles, the cold or the wolves would kill you.”

It’s so logical, Yuri can’t even come up with an argument though he stutters and scoffs.

“Words have a lot of power, as I’m sure you know,” Otabek explains, his voice even and expression stoic once more. “And with the kind of family Viktor comes from and the work he deals in, it’s important to keep up appearances. There are many things he says and does that he wishes he didn’t have to. But his reputation to outsiders is paramount.” He pauses, as if waiting for a reaction. Yuri gives him naught but a scowl. “Would you rather he’d let those savages take you back? Here, you’re only a slave on paper. You can do what you like and you have no obligations to anyone. If you’d gone back with those two, you’d have wound up just like your friend.”

That hurts. It hurts because it’s the truth, and Yuri doesn’t like to hear the truth.

“Viktor Nikiforov did _not_ save me,” he hisses.

It takes a second, but Otabek’s face darkens and he’s glowering at Yuri.

“Well then,” he mutters. “I suppose it’s a good thing you’ll never have to live the alternative and find out.”

With that, he turns away and walks back into the bathroom. Yuri stares after him. Is he mad because Yuri practically shot down his boss? He scratches his elbow absently as the silence stretches on. He’s not sure if he can believe the man, but if Otabek says he’s not a slave, that’s an order Yuri can get on board with. He’ll act normal. He won’t behave the way he’s been taught. Then he’ll know.

“I want to see him,” Yuri says finally.

“Viktor?” Otabek sounds incredulous.

“Yuuri!” he snaps back. “My friend.”

Otabek comes back out of the bathroom with a black robe in his hand. He holds it out to Yuri slowly. “You can see him later.”

Yuri does not take the clothing. “I thought I wasn’t a slave here,” he says bitterly. “I should be allowed to do whatever I want.”

“You’re not,” Otabek insists. He sounds a little frustrated now. That gives Yuri a small sense of satisfaction. “But Viktor will have a doctor looking over him soon. Once the doctor is finished and your friend is stable, you can see him.”

A likely excuse, Yuri thinks. What game is Otabek playing?

“Don’t worry about him,” the man says in a gentler tone. “Viktor will make sure he receives the highest level of care. He ensures the health of everyone here.”

 _Everyone_ , Yuri thinks. His mind flashes back to that other blond slave he saw at Viktor’s feet. He knew Otabek’s words were complete crap. And what he’s saying implies that there is definitely more than just that one green-eyed man. Viktor likes to keep his toys clean. So what? That’s not terribly unusual.

“So I _am_ a slave,” Yuri challenges.

“A slave wouldn’t be allowed to talk the way you’re talking to me.”

Yuri winces. Otabek sighs and presses his fingers to the middle of his forehead.

“That’s not what I meant,” he begins. “You’ll understand later when you’re ready to meet everyone. Your friend – Yuuri, did you call him? – is not the first Viktor has taken in. I’ll admit I’ve never seen a slave come in here so badly mistreated. But Viktor will do everything he can to make sure Yuuri is back to full health in no time. He’ll be fine. So please calm down.”

“Is that an order?” He tried not to listen to a single thing Otabek said. He _really_ hates hearing the truth.

“It’s a friendly suggestion,” Otabek says. “There’s no use worrying about it right now.”

Silence befalls them. Otabek is still holding that black robe out and Yuri is still too nervous to reach over and take it. For the first time in a long time, he feels awkward and out of place. Because, for some wild reason, Yuri almost believes the Kazakh. It’s only natural that he _wants_ to believe. But it’s been a long while since Yuri has trusted anything people like Otabek tell him. Masters, those in authority, those who are far stronger than he is. The only one he can trust is Yuuri, but even the kind-hearted Japanese man is a liar. He constantly tells Yuri “don’t worry, I’m fine” and “yes, I’m okay” or sometimes “no, I’m not hurt”. Everyone lies.

He’s had problems trusting since way before he was kidnapped.

Just for once, he wants someone to tell him the truth.

Unexpectedly, his stomach lets out a vicious growling sound. He slams his hands over it as if that will dull the sound. Heat is flooding into his cheeks again because he’s half naked and clearly starving, and Otabek is still just standing there with the robe.

“Put this on,” the man says, dropping it so that Yuri has no choice but to catch it. The material is thin, but soft. More for modesty than warmth, he thinks. “I’ll show you where the kitchen is, you can get something to eat, and then we’ll go and see how your friend is doing.”

Yuri stares at Otabek. Stares hard. He doesn’t want to do a single thing this man asks or suggests, but at the same time, he’s _really_ hungry. That’s not new – Isaak always made him beg for food, which Yuri point blank refused to do half of the time. It makes sense why he’s so skinny. But still, the promise of something to eat after that three-hour drive and the exhausting emotions afterward nudge at him. He’s hungry. And he wants to see Yuuri.

Swallowing down his pride, he slips the robe on and ties the sash. Otabek nods and opens the door, holding it expectantly.

Five seconds go by before Yuri looks down and storms past Otabek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that went well :D
> 
> Otabek is a silly man who has no idea what he's doing. Dammit, Viktor, he's the bodyguard, this wasn't in his job description!
> 
> Could the next chapter finally be the fabled reunion? I dunno :3 Let's wait and see.


	7. This New Environment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri tries to occupy himself before he's allowed to reunite with his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Chris, Yurio's attitude, references to any icky stuff that's happened previously, probably some feels also

**Yuri**

“Feel free to help yourself,” Otabek says, gesturing to the fridge and cupboards. “Or I can make you something if you’d rather-”

“I’m perfectly capable of making my own food!”

Yuri glares as Otabek shrugs and seats himself at the breakfast bar. He’s not a child, he knows how a kitchen works. He also kind of hoped the man would leave him alone, but no, instead Otabek’s reaching for a large sharing bag of cheese-flavoured chips and eating them as he mindlessly scrolls through his phone.

At least Otabek doesn’t interrupt him as he searches through the kitchen to learn where everything is kept.

Yuri finds a ridiculous amount of food stuffed into every storage unit. The freezer is crammed full of things, some store bought and some fresh that’s still in the process of freezing. When he opens the fridge, a couple of eggs topple out and he barely manages to stop them cracking on the floor. The fridge is also stuffed full of a wide array of foods, both fresh and store-bought. Every cupboard is just the same, so ridiculously full of food that he worries something a lot heftier than an egg is going to fall out and attack him.

Just how many people does Viktor keep here? All this crap has to be enough to feed a small army.

He’s starving, but he only makes himself toast which he nearly drowns in jam because he’s not had jam in well over a year. The sweetness of it catches him at the back of his mouth and makes his face twist up. It’s heaven.

Otabek is still munching away on his chips and staring at his phone, so Yuri makes more toast. At least to start with. After his sixth slice, he finds himself tearing open packets of store bought cookies and wondering if chocolate chips are the food equivalent of orgasms.

He definitely gets carried away. Although he’s fully intending to clean up the mess, right now all he sees is food. Hunger is a distant memory – at this point, he’s seeing things he’s not eaten in months and just wants to have them because they are there. And Otabek really doesn’t seem too bothered by it. The man has glanced up a couple of times but said nothing.

Eventually, though, Yuri breaks the silence.

“Do you have vodka?” he asks.

He half expects to be told he can’t have any, but Otabek nods his head to the cabinet on the far side of the kitchen. There’s an opened bottle in there already, with barely a few mouthfuls left in it. He snatches it up.

“Why vodka?” Otabek asks.

“I have a shitty taste in my mouth,” is all Yuri says before he tosses back the remnants of the bottle and immediately feels better as the liquid burns his throat.

The taste of Isaak is long gone. It’s probably all in his head. The vodka helps anyway.

Just as he’s about to ask to be taken to Yuuri, the door bursts open. He jumps, and in bounds a curly-haired mutt with giant floppy ears and a long tongue hanging out of its mouth. Yuri freezes. He’s always been more of a cat person.

The mongrel trots right up to him and presses its wet nose against his hand, sniffing and licking. Yuri snatches his hand away. Gross.

“Makkachin!” a voice sings.

The dog makes an odd noise and scurries back to the door. Its feet tap excitedly on the tiled floor until a figure steps through and pets the animal’s head. Yuri stares. It’s the slave from earlier. Except…he no longer _looks_ like a slave. His collar is gone – much like Yuri’s own, he can’t help but note – and he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and loose grey sweats. A start contrast to when he’d been sitting at Viktor’s feet earlier.

The man laughs a little too enthusiastically when the dog barks and leaps, dancing around with way too much energy for a mutt who looks to be turning grey. He ruffles the animal’s ears before looking up.

“Oh, you’re here!” he says.

Otabek is still scrolling through his phone, paying no mind whatsoever to the two new visitors.

“And you’re making yourself right at home, how wonderful!” The blond saunters forward, giving Yuri no time to even think about backing up. He thrusts his hand out. “Christophe Giacometti, but you? You can call me Chris.”

‘Chris’ winks. Yuri stares at the offered hand, not sure what to make of any of this.

“I think you’re coming on a little strong,” Otabek mutters from his seat.

“Oh, _no_ , Mr. Altin,” Chris says in a voice that is ridiculously flirtatious. “Coming on too strong would be stripping down and working a pole. I would know, I do it for a living after all!”

“Don’t remind me.”

Chris positively giggles, and Yuri gets the feeling that he’s missing something.

“You mean you didn’t _enjoy_ helping me with my practise?” Chris asks with a melodramatic gasp.

Otabek gives the man a flat look before turning to Yuri who is rooted to the spot and tensed to the maximum. “Ignore Chris. He’s harmless.”

Chris scoffs. “He’s also standing right here, thank you very much,” the man says in a mock indignant tone. He finally drops his hand when he seems to realise Yuri is not going to take it. “Anyway, what might your name be, Minou?”

Yuri can only frown. He doesn’t recognise the language for one thing, and for another, this man is smiling far too wide. His eyelashes are too long, his teeth are too white. There’s something kind of uncomfortable about how friendly Chris appears to be. It’s fake, but more fake than anyone else he’s spoken to in here. And apparently the man is a pole dancer. Which is extra gross.

Instead of answering Chris, he asks a question of his own.

“Who are you?”

There’s a moment of pause in which one of Chris’ eyebrows arches up and Otabek frowns in confusion.

“Well, _some_ people have also called me Christophe Jackoffmet-”

“That’s not what I meant!” Yuri snaps. “I-”

He realises he sort of doesn’t really _know_ what he means. Yuri’s never been known for his manners, but it seems rude to ask about this man’s status. Saying “what are you” is about the only way he can think of to ask if he’s really a slave or not.

But the blond man’s face relaxes in understanding. He even looks a little relieved.

“Ah, okay, I understand what you mean,” Chris says with a solemn smile. “I’m the very same as you.”

Yuri isn’t entirely clear on what that means mostly because he doesn’t know whether or not Otabek means it when he says Yuri isn’t a slave. It could all be some twisted game, these lies that spill from the man’s lips. Or he could mean it. After all, Yuri would never have been allowed to ransack Isaak’s kitchen the way he’s just done this one.

But then his mind jumps back to earlier and paints the picture of Chris sitting at Viktor’s feet, red collar around his neck and Viktor’s pale hand weaving through those blond curls. He thinks of how this man has literally just blurted out that he’s a pole dancer – something that surely only a slave would do.

No, they’re not the same at all. Otabek is Yuri’s Master. And Chris…

“You’re just Viktor Nikiforov’s well-trained pet,” is what comes out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

Friendly hazel eyes turn sour for a tiny second while Otabek sighs in the background.

“I am no one’s pet,” says Chris. He sounds tense as if he’s forcing himself to remain polite. “ _Makkachin_ is a well-trained pet.” The mutt’s ears perk up at the sound of its name. “And me? Thanks to Viktor Nikiforov, I have my life. And it’s wonderful. Compared to the life I was living before he saved me, it’s paradise. Viktor is my best friend, and frankly, you insult he and I both by suggesting that’s what this is.”

Yuri is taken aback. Chris’ face slides into something warmer.

“It’s not your fault,” he reassures. “Appearances can be deceiving, after all. And this is all new to you. I’m sure you’re very scared and confused, but you’ll never believe anything we say until things have settled down. Just know that there were a couple of very good reasons for the way I was presented earlier.”

Swallowing down the urge to ask – because he _knows_ he won’t really believe anything Chris tells him – Yuri nods. He wants to say he’s sorry considering how offended the air around Chris is, but the words get stuck. A sincere apology is something that’s not left his mouth in years.

Instead of hovering awkwardly, he sets about cleaning up the mess he’s made. He hears the gentle crunch of Otabek’s chips as he eats them and the tapping of the mutt’s – Makkachin’s – claws on the tiled floor as Chris digs around to find a treat for the beast. Chris and Otabek both seem completely unaffected by the atmosphere. Maybe it’s just Yuri and his nerves while he has his back to these two strangers.

The dog laps loudly at a bowl of water on the ground. Chris stares at him for a long moment. Yuri can feel him staring, but averts his eyes because it’s been a good while since he’s last chewed someone out for staring at him wrong. Perhaps Chris feels the question burning on his tongue, though.

“You have a hickey,” the older man says bluntly. He taps the side of his own neck as Yuri’s eyes widen in alarm. Otabek snaps up. “Right there.”

Reflexively, Yuri’s hand darts up to cover the mark and he feels how tender it is right away. Oh God, with everything that’s happened today, he forgot Isaak had marked him too.

Chris turns away and begins rooting through a high cabinet for something while Otabek has jumped to his feet and is coming closer all too quickly. There’s a slight dip in his eyebrows that looks kind of like a frown. Yuri wants to step away, but doesn’t.

“Let me see,” he demands.

That tone makes him take a step back. Otabek was so much less intimidating when he was sitting eating chips.

“No,” Yuri dares.

“I thought they never used you like that.” Otabek’s voice is hard as Chris places something down on the counter.

“They didn’t, but-” Yuri slams his mouth shut. Both men wait for him to continue. Quiet seconds tick by. Finally, Yuri says, “They didn’t. It’s none of your business anyway!”

Otabek’s face scrunches up. “I didn’t notice before.”

The thing Chris placed on the counter turns out to be a first aid kit, which the blond man opens up. Otabek dives straight into it and finds a simple white dressing that can be easily used to cover the mark.

“Let me-”

“I can do it myself!”

It’s not that Yuri doesn’t appreciate the sentiment or the fact that _both_ men have picked up on the fact that he doesn’t want the mark to be seen. The issue is that he’s not a child, yet everyone seems insistent on treating him like one. Yuri isn’t fragile. He doesn’t need to be babied. And if they think he _does_ because of the fuss he made earlier, well…

Point is, Yuri can put his own damn bandage on.

He tears it from Otabek’s hand when the man holds it out to him and plasters it hastily over the probably purple mark. A moment of tense silence passes until the faint sound of a doorbell ringing snaps everyone out of their awkwardness. Chris excuses himself to go and take care of it while Otabek puts the first aid kit away. Yuri pets the top of the mutt’s curly head, looking anywhere but at the Kazakh.

Several long, painful seconds tick by. The stiffness in the air is palpable. Otabek doesn’t seem to know what to say, and Yuri sure as hell isn’t about to initiate conversation. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s kind of waiting for the tanned male to go back on all that “you’re not a slave” crap.

He doesn’t, though.

Instead, he quietly clears his throat and says, “So are you going to tell me your name or not?”

Yuri blinks, not really wanting to answer. He always hated the way Isaak said his name before. It takes him a few moments to speak, and he continues to pet the dog’s head the entire time, still not looking up.

“Yuri,” he mutters.

“Plisetsky?” Otabek asks.

Except he doesn’t quite ask, it’s more like he’s stating a fact. Yuri’s head snaps up before he can even think about it. Otabek has the nerve to look kind of sheepish under his scrutiny.

“We saw you competing in the junior division before…well, before you…disappeared,” the man says quietly. “You look different. I…wasn’t sure if it was you. I just had a feeling.”

Yuri scowls. “If you knew my name, why did you ask?”

“I thought it would be more polite,” Otabek answers. “That was probably the doctor coming in earlier, so it could still be a little while before you can see your friend.” Otabek waits, as if he’s seeing how Yuri will react. “I’ll show you around the house.”

When Otabek walks to the door and doesn’t wait for an answer, Yuri realises he doesn’t have much of a choice. Moodily, he follows the Kazakh out, the giant fluffy beast of a dog trotting at his heels.

The house is somehow bigger inside than it looks from the outside, and every door looks the same. Yuri isn’t sure how he’s going to find his way around here and not get lost. He pretends to be taking on board everything Otabek is saying, but mostly he’s only catching the basics. _Entrance to the basement is on the other side of the kitchen, the door leading to the back garden is just down this corridor, family room is through here_.

Yuri isn’t sure why a house this size that accommodates only servants, slaves, and a Master and his bodyguard would need such a room. Otabek takes him through it, apparently somehow able to sense his scepticism. There’s a giant, plush corner sofa in the middle of the room with a ridiculously fluffy rug under it facing a massive TV that’s against the wall. Dog toys are littered about, but the huge dog bed in the corner looks completely unused. Yuri doesn’t look at the photos on the shelves or what’s tucked away in plain sight in the storage spaces, but instead stares at the soft blanket piled in a heap on the sofa. It’s covered in cartoonish animals – hamsters, maybe? – and is definitely well used. Allegedly, it belongs to another resident named Phichit. Yuri doesn’t even want to ask.

There are a couple of bathrooms on the ground floor too, one of which Yuri pauses to use. As well as the family room and kitchen, the ground floor seems to boast a surprisingly cosy dining room, a spacious furnished conservatory that’s a little on the chilly side, a music room that apparently no one ever uses, a tiny gym, and a locked room that Otabek says is Viktor’s office. The other rooms are all empty, Otabek explains, because no one seems to know what to do with them except the one sitting area where he first laid eyes on Viktor earlier. Otabek doesn’t take him back into this room.

The third floor is where the largest room is. Viktor supposedly calls it a ballroom, but it’s really just a big empty thing with a bar, some fancy coloured lights, and a space for music to be set up. Otabek doesn’t bother showing Yuri that room, but he _does_ take him to the library. It’s small though there are definitely several hundred books in here. Yuri is free to borrow whenever he wants as long as he puts it back when he’s done. They don’t around the rest of the third floor because apparently it’s more empty rooms collecting dust.

They don’t get very far with the second floor, which is the one that hosts all of the bedrooms. Otabek has barely started explaining which room belongs to who – again, Yuri has no idea how he’s supposed to remember when every door looks the same and there are so many corridors – when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Yuri cautiously eyes up the door that seemingly leads to his own room, only one door away from Otabek’s.

“The doctor left,” Otabek says, typing on the phone. “You can see your friend now.”

A kind of thrill makes Yuri’s heart skip a beat. He didn’t really expect Otabek to keep his promise for one thing.

As he follows Otabek back to the main corridor, catching sight of a red-haired woman leaving through the front door, he desperately wants to ask how Yuuri is. He _doesn’t,_ however, want to hear the answer because…he doesn’t know why. Maybe he just wants to see for himself.

Anticipation builds in his stomach like bile. Why is he so nervous? He _knows_ Yuuri. He’s being ridiculous, and he knows it. But he still hesitates to open the door when Otabek comes to a stop outside it. He wonders if he’s worried that it’s bad news – that Yuuri won’t make it. Maybe he’s scared to walk in and miraculously find the Japanese man fit as a fiddle and therefore game for whatever his own Master has planned.

Yuri can’t decide which is worse.

“Go on,” Otabek whispers. “It’s late, so I’m sure he’s tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

Yuri only glances at Otabek, at first offended by his words, then not so offended when he sees how soft the Kazakh’s face has become.

He swallows and pushes the door open.

Viktor, sitting on the floor by the bed, turns when he bursts in. Yuri doesn’t look at Viktor, though. He looks at Yuuri.

The Japanese man is lying on his stomach, head turned so he’s facing the door. He looks exhausted, and kind of shiny even in the dim lighting, with dark circles under his brown eyes and a chalky overtone to his face. A thin grey blanket has been carefully laid over him from his waist right down to his toes. He’s not even lying on the bed properly – he’s sort of diagonal with his head nowhere near the top. Someone has placed a thin pillow under his head anyway. And finally, there are two metal poles at either side of the bed, each sporting a clear bag of something which are attached to Yuuri’s arms with drips.

Yuuri’s eyes, unfocused and watery, find him in the doorway. A smile breaks his sickly face.

“Yurio!”

Viktor practically leaps out of the way when Yuri makes his way over to his sick friend. Yuuri’s clammy hand comes up when Yuri sits on the bed, so he takes it gently and gives it a slight squeeze.

“Yurio, I was so worried about you,” Yuuri says in a tone that’s half whiny and half scolding. Yeah, definitely delirious with his infection. “Were you with your Master?”

Yuri scowls. “He’s _not_ my Master.”

Yuuri chuckles quietly. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

It strikes him right at that exact moment that Yuuri is here, in front of him. He’s here, he’s hooked up to what Yuri can only assume is medicine, and he’s talking. His friend is still alive, and is somehow managing to giggle.

“Yurio, what’s wrong? Did he hurt you?”

“No, no, it’s nothing,” he stammers quickly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his borrowed robe before any tears can fall. “Nothing at all. I’m fine. Are you going to be okay?”

Again, Yuuri smiles warmly and closes his eyes. “I am now that you’re here. You’ll stay, won’t you?” His voice is so quiet and breathless, Yuri can hardly hear it. “I’m going to rest for a bit, I think. But you’ll stay? My Master said you can stay. He seems really nice, Yurio. I think…”

The Japanese man trails off into whispered incoherence until, a few seconds later, he’s fallen asleep. Yuri watches the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he breathes, eyes up the angry red wound.

Exhaustion hits him like a train. For a moment, he forgets Viktor is still there. Until-

“Yurio.”

He flinches at the nickname when it doesn’t come from Yuuri’s lips. Nervously, he turns his head to look at Viktor.

The man looks different somehow. Maybe it’s the lighting, but his face seems softer. Even though he’s drawn up to his full height, his blue eyes are bright and warm, and his silver hair flows gently over his face. This façade makes Yuri want to warn him never to use that nickname again, but the threat gets stuck in his throat somewhere. Whatever confidence he’s built up for dealing with Otabek definitely does not apply with this man.

A small smile graces Viktor’s pale face.

“There’s no need to look so worried, Yurio,” he says kindly. And he says it in Russian. “You’ve nothing to fear from me or anyone in this house. My name is Viktor, although I’m sure you knew that.”

Yuri swallows down dry air.

“Is that what you want me to call you?” he tests.

Any man who is not a Master or a fellow slave must be called Sir. But he wants to make sure. He still isn’t sure if he believes what is going on.

“I would greatly appreciate it if you did,” Viktor says. There is a pause. “Yurio, I know this life isn’t what you wanted. And I’m _so_ sorry for what’s happened to you and Yuuri. I hope…”

Yuri tunes the man out, not wanting to hear anything remotely resembling pity or lies or whatever else is coming out of his mouth. He’s been perfecting his ability to not listen to people his entire life. Viktor keeps talking though, completely oblivious to Yuri’s disinterest.

At his side, Yuuri moans. Yuri whips back around, but the man is still asleep. He reaches over to push dark hair out of the man’s closed eyes.

“The doctor’s confident Yuuri will make a full recovery,” Viktor murmurs. “A few weeks of antibiotics and cleaning his wound twice a day is all he needs. And lots of rest, of course. She’ll be back tomorrow evening to check on him, but she left painkillers behind in the meantime, and kits for cleaning the wound.” Another moment of quiet. “Yurio, he’ll be all right.”

Something in Yuri snaps. He _knows_ Viktor only means that Yuuri will be back to physical health. He knows all the man means is that Yuuri’s wound will heal and he’ll regain his strength and whatnot. But Yuri sees red for the briefest of moments anyway.

“You can’t say that,” Yuri hisses. “You can’t say he’ll be all right when you have _no idea_ what he’s been through. You weren’t there to see it, and you weren’t there to clean up the mess those sick bastards left behind every single time.”

Viktor’s expression has wavered when Yuri turns back to him.

“Yurio,” he implores softly. “That’s not what I-”

“I don’t care what you meant!”

Oh God, Yuri is crying again.

“You don’t have a clue what they did to him,” he snaps. “If you did-”

He can’t even continue, so he turns away to look back down at his sleeping friend again. The silver-haired man probably knows exactly what happened, because he’s probably just as sick and twisted as they are.

Viktor sighs.

“Yurio, please listen to me,” he implores. “That is not what I meant. But I can promise you that Yuuri _will_ be all right in that sense too. Not tomorrow, not next week, maybe not even next year. One day, though, he’ll be all right. I know I could never possibly understand what’s happened to him. But he won’t be like this forever. Healing takes time. A long time. It doesn’t happen overnight or because someone has been kind. But it _does_ happen eventually.”

Yuri refuses to say anything. This man’s a fucking idiot. He’s a rich Master who’s probably never had anything remotely bad happen to him in his life.

“You met Chris earlier, right?”

No answer again.

“You might never have guessed he used to belong to Isaak and Matvei too.”

Yuri’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t even bother to ask a question. He just wants Viktor to leave so that he can be here with Yuuri and sleep after this exhausting day. He is _not_ going to think about Chris right now, nor Isaak and Matvei. Everything is suddenly becoming too much.

Another quiet sigh escapes Viktor. Yuri hears him pad to the door.

“My room is next door,” Viktor says. “Come and get me or Otabek if you need something.”

The door creaks as Viktor pulls it shut, but stops halfway.

“You’ll heal eventually too, Yurio.”

A click signifies that the door has closed and Yuri is alone with Yuuri.

There is so much anger at Viktor’s ignorant words bubbling in his chest, but his tiredness overtakes it completely. It’s so late, he’s so exhausted, his eyes are puffy and sore.

Yuri pulls up one of the many blankets folded at the bottom of the bed and draws it up to his neck as he lies down, curled on his side and facing Yuuri. But for the occasional mumble or moan, Yuuri’s face is relaxed and pain-free as he sleeps.

Today feels like a dream, Yuri thinks. Not a nightmare, but certainly not a good dream either. There is just something not quiet real about it. _He_ feels strange, and in ways he can’t describe. There’s so much to process and think about, so much to make sense of. Where does he even begin? It’s hard to think anything coherent.

Yuri decides it’ll be best if he deals with it in the morning, and falls asleep to the shallow, rapid breathing coming from his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's lighten things up in the next chapter, shall we? :P Maybe just a little. Next chapter we'll go back to Yuuri who might be a little more coherent after several doses of antibiotics!
> 
> Also wanted to take this moment to ask you guys if there's anything specific you'd like to see in this fic? I have most of it planned out, but if there's anything you want to see happen or any situations you want the characters in, feel free to say and I may try to work it into the story somehow :P This can include sexy stuff or non-sexy stuff. Or anything in between. The ideas can be specific, or general :)
> 
> Your amazing support means the world to me <3


	8. Coherence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t help it. A small smile forms on his lips, the tiniest laugh escapes him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be dogs being CUTE.
> 
> Content warnings: I don't think there are any? This is from Yuuri's perspective, so that comes with a warning for his unhealthy way of thinking, currently. Mentions of slavery and very brief, barely there allusions to things slaves do and are put through.

**Yuuri**

Yuuri can’t really recall being delirious. He remembers almost everything that happened, based on what Yurio tells him, but nothing Yuuri said or did strikes him as particularly odd. Apparently he exhibited some out of character behaviour though. He’d take Yurio’s word for it. Given the circumstances, he kind of feels that his reactions were natural. But his memories _are_ a little hazy.

It’s mostly the details that escape him. His new Master – a silver-haired man named Viktor – was kind and patient, he knows that much. But the finer points of anything the man said on the first night are long gone from his mind. Yuuri hasn’t even seen him since that first night. Or, if he has, he’s forgotten. He thinks the latter is the more likely outcome. The only person he can remember seeing over the past week is Yurio, but he knows that can’t be possible because Yurio never leaves him alone yet he seems to be constantly changing his outfit and producing soup from nowhere. Yuuri also rationalises that the doctor Yurio constantly talks about must be coming in to see him every day: the clear bags hanging from the drip stands at either side of the bed are replaced often enough.

Oh well. Regardless of what he remembers, he can feel himself becoming better – and more lucid – by the day. It’s strange, though. Everything feels so surreal around him. Like it’s a dream. For what feels like years, all Yuuri’s life has been is following orders and hurting. Since becoming a slave, he’s never been allowed to rest this long. Since becoming a slave, he hasn’t known anything but pain every single day.

Yurio has expressed his suspicions about their situation (and his distaste for his own Master, despite reassuring Yuuri that the man hasn’t even called for him once). It would be nice to bask in this limbo forever, but Yuuri is with his blond Russian friend on this one. This can’t be it. There has to be more here. Yuuri nervously awaits the day his Master will decide he’s been resting for long enough.

He’s so grateful for this reprieve and the medical care and the painkillers Yurio says are being supplied by Viktor. But it makes him anxious because he knows he’ll have to make it up to his Master. Not that he’s _completely_ against it. He knows and has accepted that slaves must pay for every luxury. And his Master _seemed_ benevolent enough before that Yuuri doesn’t believe his payment will be too unpleasant.

One can never be too sure, though.

When he wakes up this morning, he’s not at all surprised to see the TV settled on a movie’s menu screen. It’s one Yurio chose last night only to fall asleep halfway through it and leave Yuuri to struggle with reading the blurry English subtitles alone. What _does_ startle him, however, is Yurio is not there, but seems to have been replaced with a giant fluffy dog face. Its wet nose is inches from Yuuri’s face, sniffing gently and appraising him with large, inquisitive eyes.

Yuuri blinks, not sure if he believes what he’s seeing. The dog suddenly sticks its long tongue out and licks a sloppy stripe from Yuuri’s chin right up to his forehead.

He yelps and jumps up.

“Oh!”

Yuuri startles again.

As he looks up, he meets a pair of blue eyes, bright and warm. Long fingers push silver hair out of the way, and the man Yuuri can accurately identify as his Master looks down at him in surprise.

He can’t remember if his Master has given him the go-ahead to make eye contact, so Yuuri immediately drops his gaze back down to the slightly greying poodle that’s looking like it might leap onto the bed and pounce on Yuuri at any second.

“Sorry,” his Master says, and he hears the sound of something being placed down on the bedside table. “We didn’t mean to wake you. Makkachin, what have I told you about sniffing around people’s faces like that?”

The Master’s hand scratches the top of the dog’s head affectionately.

“It-It’s okay, Master,” he says demurely. He senses the man pause for a second. “I…”

“You what, Yuuri?” his Master asks after a second of silence.

Yuuri swallows and reaches out to pet the dog gently, which makes its whole body wiggle with excitement. “I like dogs.”

As he says it, the dog hops up onto the bed and leans its heavy head on Yuuri’s lap. He struggles to tug the blanket back up around his waist to cover his almost naked lower half, and hopes the action goes unnoticed by his Master who is fiddling with something on the bedside table.

Yuuri watches the gentle swaying of the dog’s tail for a while.

“How are you feeling, Yuuri?” his Master asks, sitting down next to the dog and patting it gently on the leg.

“Much better, Master,” Yuuri answers.

“Are you sore anywhere?”

“N- a little,” he admits. “My back.”

His Master fumbles with something before handing him a glass of water and two white pills. “Painkillers,” the man explains.

Yuuri closes his eyes as he swallows them down without question, muttering out a quiet ‘thank you’ when he’s done. His Master takes the glass from him and places it back on the nightstand.

“Yuuri,” his Master says. “You can look at me. You don’t have to keep your eyes down.”

Timidly, Yuuri lifts his gaze. He doesn’t really want to look at the man, but not every command is issued as a command. Sometimes it’s disguised as a suggestion, or even as an option. But when he meets his Master’s kind eyes, the man’s face is soft and his smile relaxed.

“There you are,” his Master says quietly. “How would you feel about a bath, Yuuri?”

He feels his eyes widen. A bath sounds like heaven right now. His body is stiff from lying in bed for…for however long he’s been lying in this bed, and he feels gross. He can smell that he’s drenched in old sweat and his hair is uncomfortably heavy on his head.

And yet he can’t help freezing in his thoughts. His previous Masters liked him clean, no matter how rough they were the night before. He was always expected to keep himself fresh. There’s no helping that he wonders if this Master wants him clean so they can get on with what slaves are supposed to do.

He clears his throat quietly. “I’d like a bath, Master.”

His Master nods. “I think it would do you a lot of good. The doctor says immobility is detrimental to wound healing. She’ll be here later to take out your IVs and give you more antibiotics. Then we can see about getting you on your feet and to the bathroom.”

At those words, Yuuri wonders how he’s even been going to the bathroom since he got here. Frankly, he doesn’t really want to know, but not being able to remember or work it out is frustrating.

“Are you hungry?”

He’s _starving_.

“A little, Master.”

“I don’t know what the doctor will say about solid food yet, but I’m sure porridge will be fine. I’ll just put lots of milk in it. Do you like porridge?” The Master scratches his dog’s leg as he speaks.

Yuuri says he does. Porridge is bland, as far as he knows. But it’s still food, and the uncomfortable ache in his empty stomach is slowly becoming unbearable.

“Makkachin likes you,” the Master comments when the dog licks Yuuri’s hand for attention. The man gets to his feet. “I’ll leave him with you while I get breakfast for you. Don’t try to get up by yourself, all right? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

He nods mutely as he scratches under the dog’s chin.

“And Yuuri?”

It takes a second of internal preparation for him to gain the courage to look back up.

“Do you remember when we talked about my name?”

Yuuri frowns, trying to remember. “I…I don’t think so, Master.”

The man sighs, but his face remains patient as ever. “I’d like you to call me Viktor, if you can. Remember, I am not your Master. Addressing me so makes me very uncomfortable.”

Not a word of that computes in Yuuri’s head. The man must see his expression, because his shoulders slump and the action makes Yuuri wince.

“Don’t worry about it for now,” he says. “We can talk about it later. Just please don’t call me that.”

The silver-haired male leaves, and Yuuri sits on the bed feeling all kinds of confused. Has he missed something? Is this some kind of a dream or a joke? Why would Viktor _not_ be his Master? Is he remembering the events that transpired wrongly?

Frowning again, he lifts a hand to his neck where he feels no collar. There is only slight tenderness from where the previous one was pulled taut. Come to think of it, he didn’t see Yurio wearing a collar before either.

“What the hell,” he whispers to himself.

A million and one questions press on his mind as he waits for his Master (Yuuri simply can’t sit here and believe that the man _isn’t_ ) to return. He supposes it must be a game of some sort. What does he have to do to lose, he wonders. The man wants Yuuri to call him by name – something he could never do in a million years. Perhaps he doesn’t have to, though. _Sometimes_ , though rarely, it’s acceptable to omit titles or names. Maybe Yuuri can just avoid addressing the man by any kind of title or name at all. After all, he’s sure he will soon know if this is displeasing.

Yuuri moves around a little to sit more comfortably on the bed, but Makkachin moves with him and flops his head back down in Yuuri’s lap, rolling a little so his fluffy belly is exposed. The dog stares at Yuuri with one eye, tongue lolling out and tail wagging.

Despite himself, Yuuri smiles.

He jumps when his Master reappears, even though the man knocks gently on the ajar door before he enters. Held in his hand is a ridiculously ugly patterned plastic tray with little legs at the sides. His Master shoos the dog off the bed so he can place the tray down. Yuuri is thankful when he doesn’t hover to stare but instead heads into an adjoining room. The sound of running water reaches his ears.

There’s a small bowl of porridge topped with far too much milk in the centre of the tray, and a rather fancy-looking silver spoon sits beside it. A glass sits at either side of the bowl: one is large and filled with water that is cold enough for condensation to build on the outside of the glass, the other is only about twice the size of a shot glass and contains fresh orange juice. Yuuri warily eyes up the squeezy bottle of honey in the corner of the tray, wondering if this is some kind of test or if the sticky golden condiment is really for him.

From what Yuuri can only assume is a bathroom, his Master calls.

“Now, Makkachin really likes sweet things,” he says over the sound of the water. “He’ll look at you with those big brown eyes, and you’ll want to give him some. Even the strongest of men have been brought to their knees by this fearsome animal! His will is strong, and his eyes are shiny. But don’t give in, Yuuri!”

Again, he can’t help it. A small smile forms on his lips, the _tiniest_ laugh escapes him, at his Master’s silliness.

“Tell him ‘the honey is only for me!’. He’ll sulk, but he’ll leave you alone.”

Yuuri looks down at the pooch whose head is resting on the bed. He can see drool leaking out of the dog’s mouth. Fondly, he shakes his head.

“You can’t have any,” he tells the dog in a quiet voice, a smile still on his face as Makkachin lets out a whine.

Those huge brown eyes never leave the bottle of honey as Yuuri dares to open it and squeeze a generous amount into the overly milky porridge. Makkachin even lets out a pathetic groaning noise when Yuuri snaps the lid shut again, and then the dog turns away and lies down with a huff.

He chuckles quietly.

The first spoonful of milk-logged and sweetened porridge explodes on his tongue. It’s so rich, so sweet, that it catches somewhere in his cheeks and makes his face twist in displeasure. He has to take several small sips of water – which are heavenly on his parched throat – before he can try again. With each mouthful, his taste buds become accustomed to the flavour once more. He takes small amounts at a time. Tiny in fact. But he still eats quickly, trying to finish before the water shuts off.

It’s good, satisfying even, but the food sits heavy in his stomach when he’s done, with still almost a third of the bowl filled. He finishes the orange juice and half of the water.

He becomes nervous again when the running water stops and his Master comes back into the room.

“Was it okay?” the silver-haired man asks.

“Yes,” Yuuri says politely. “Thank you. I’m just f- I just can’t eat any more.”

Catching himself before he adds ‘Master’ to the end almost doesn’t work, but he manages.

“Well, now we just have to wait for the doctor to arrive,” the other says, moving to a small cabinet where he pulls out a blue towel.

“Um-”

Yuuri flinches when the man turns to face him very suddenly at his quiet word. His question dies in his throat.

“What is it?” his Master prompts.

“Wh…” He swallows. “Where’s Yurio?”

“Ah, I convinced him to take a shower in his own room,” the man says with a smile. “You’ve _both_ been lying in this bed for a week. He was starting to smell a little…well, unpleasant. And I really think he was getting restless, so I asked Otabek to show him around the gardens.”

Yuuri scratches at his hand. He’s not heard much about Yurio’s own Master other than Yurio hates him, but from the sounds of it, the man also sounds fairly placid. At least, he’s never once called Yurio away, and Yuuri can’t seem to remember ever being too concerned about his Russian friend.

Again, all sorts of questions and worries spring to mind, but this time he doesn’t have to voice any of them aloud. His Master sits down on the edge of the bed and starts to explain.

He tells Yuuri who he is – the heir to a powerful and shady-sounding company whose father is still alive, though apparently the man likes to get him involved often. Yuuri doesn’t much care to hear about the ‘dangerous money’ being dealt, so he kind of tunes out as his Master talks about Otabek, his bodyguard and Yurio’s own Master. He doesn’t think he hears anything too worrying. And one thing he _can_ recall from the first night is how the silver-haired male reassured him that Otabek wouldn’t hurt Yurio. Yuuri’s sure Yurio would be a lot more vocal about it if he is in danger anyway.

His Master takes him through the events of the first night, and then the second, and all the nights subsequently. Yuuri appreciates the recap. But still one thing lingers on his mind.

“You…You say you’re not my Master,” he says carefully. “But I don’t understand. If you signed the paperwork…”

“That’s all it is, Yuuri,” the man replies. “Paperwork. I’m in a position to remove people from terrible situations, so when the opportunity arises, I take it. Matvei isn’t really a business partner so much as an old family…friend.” His face sours at that word. “When a large amount of the company’s money went missing and I was able to pinpoint the blame on him, he told me he had two slaves he could give me if I didn’t turn him over to my father.” He pauses again, looking thoughtful. “You don’t believe me.”

Yuuri startles. “I-I-”

“Yuuri, it’s fine. I wouldn’t really expect you to, so please don’t get yourself stressed out over it.”

He doesn’t believe the man any more now than he did before, not even as the doctor knocks gently on the door and he is told not to worry about it right now.

The doctor reintroduces herself as Mila Babicheva, and she tells him with a relieved smile on her young-looking face that his blood tests came back completely normal. She also tells him that nothing unusual came back from his wound swab, so he will be fine to come off his IV antibiotics today and move on to oral ones for ten days. When she checks the wound on his back, she comments that it already looks so much better than it had. Before she removes his IV lines, she does a series of basic assessments – his blood pressure, and temperature and whatnot – and seems pleased with the results.

She spends probably more time than necessary telling him about his treatment plan from here. It sounds like a rather full regimen. Antibiotics twice a day for the next ten days, then she will be back to check on him again. He should take painkillers for any remaining soreness in the meantime. Someone should clean his wound twice a day as they have been doing – not that Yuuri can remember anyone doing this and continue to do so until she returns after ten days. As a warning, she adds that if he’s bathing, he shouldn’t soak the wound until it has closed up. Yuuri must drink plenty of water, and though she doesn’t do an internal exam, she tells him he will be fine to start back on more solid foods but he should go easy on them and stick to healthy, lighter things at first. He will be unsteady on his feet for a little while, the doctor presumes, so she cautions him to take it easy. No strenuous exercise, just short and simple walks, but he definitely should not stay confined to a bed any more. She speaks to his Master to tell the man that fresh air would do Yuuri good, but to be careful with the cold weather. Then she informs Yuuri that she has referred him to an optician and he has an appointment in three weeks to get glasses.

Nervously, Yuuri glances up at his Master. Isaak and Matvei never let him go outside of the house, never mind all the way into a town to see an eye specialist. He can get by without his glasses. Why would his Master bother going to the trouble of taking him to see an optician?

As a final comment, the doctor adds that it’s probably best to continue to abstain from sex for now. Yuuri can’t make sense of a comment like that.

Doctor Babicheva finishes up the visit and takes her equipment away after wishing him well, leaving Yuuri feeling a little dazed. He wordlessly swallows down his first antibiotic when his Master hands it to him. He doesn’t know why, but he feels suddenly a lot more uneasy. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t expect his Master to follow much of what the doctor has recommended. Any moment, this façade is going to break.

It has to.

“Yuuri?”

He blinks himself out of his daze and faces his Master.

“Let’s get you into the bath before it gets cold, yes?”

With a subtle sigh of resignation, Yuuri nods. He’ll surely feel better after a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bathing solves about 50% of your problems. Cake solves the other 50%. Someone bake this boy a cake.
> 
> Next chapter, we're getting into Viktor's head!


	9. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor takes Yuuri one step forward, and three steps back...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Viktor chapter! Here there be more dogs being cute. Content warnings might confuse you, but just read and you'll see.
> 
> Content warnings: descriptions of injuries sustained from rape and torture, non-consensual touching, slight dirty talk?, and a panic attack. Generally a Very Distressing Thing happens near the end.

**Viktor**

“Let’s get you into the bath before it gets cold, yes?”

Yuuri lets out a barely noticeable sigh before he nods and looks down. For what is possibly the millionth time in a week, Viktor feels something in his chest clench painfully. He quashes the urge to touch the Japanese man in some show of comfort; he knows it won’t do anything to help Yuuri’s nervousness.

He’s already dug a bathrobe out of the wardrobe for Yuuri, so he hands it carefully down to the man. Yuuri is wearing underwear – the same underwear he’s had on for a week now, Viktor is loath to remember – but Viktor thinks it might be appreciated deep down if he helps Yuuri to preserve his modesty. In the beginning, Chris never seemed too bothered by his own nakedness (and in fact, the man still doesn’t seem to care about it), but he noticed Yuuri fussing with the blanket earlier. Viktor has learned to pick on the little things.

“You can put that on, if you want to,” Viktor affirms as Yuuri eyes up the garment he’s been handed. “I’ll let some daylight in here.”

Taking care not to stare as Yuuri gingerly pulls on the bathrobe, Viktor makes his way to the huge window and wrenches the curtains open. White light, made brighter by the snowy scenery outside, floods the room. He catches sight of Otabek walking alongside Yurio in the distance. They’re too far to make out any facial expressions, but the pair look relaxed enough.

Whatever the case, it certainly looks to be going better than the first time they were alone together. Viktor cringes inwardly when he thinks about it and hopes he’s not made a huge mistake in having Otabek sign for legal ownership of the blond boy. He only did it in the first place because it seemed like the most believable way to get Isaak and Matvei to hand over him too. Otabek is trustworthy and loyal to a tee, but despite his stoic and calm façade, Viktor knows he is prone to doing things without really thinking them through. It’s landed the pair of them in hot water in the past…

When he turns back to Yuuri, the man has shuffled to the edge of the bed and is tying the sash of the dark blue bathrobe around his waist. The fabric is bunched around his hips, revealing his slim legs, and with them, showcasing the healing marks. Viktor can see faint yellowing bruises, mostly contained to his ankles and his thighs. The tell-tale sign of friction burn is also fading away around his ankles where the skin is pink, speckled with tiny scrapes.

He feels a surge of disgust for Isaak and Matvei.

Movements slow and careful, he moves back around the bed so Yuuri can see him. The man looks a little lost.

“Would it be all right if I helped you up?” Viktor asks, forcing his voice to be as gentle as possible and trying not to make it sound like a disguised order. “You might be a little unsteady on your feet.”

“Whatever you’d like,” Yuuri responds softly, not meeting his eyes.

Viktor purses his lips. “I’ll help you to your feet,” he says because he doesn’t want Yuuri to try it himself and keel over completely.

He is tentative as he holds out his hand to the other man, and Yuuri is just as timid as he reaches out to take it. Viktor reaches out his other hand so that both of his are clasped in Yuuri’s. The man cautiously pulls himself to his feet, using Viktor as balance only a little. However, when he’s upright on shaky legs, he sways and Viktor has to plant his own feet firmly.

“Yuuri?” he asks.

“J-Just dizzy,” he says, eyes unfocused. “I’ll be all right in a second…”

Viktor waits, and though Yuuri’s eyes become more attentive, the man is still frightfully unsteady. So much so that when he tries to take a step forward, his legs almost give way underneath him and Viktor has to lower him gently so he can sit on the floor.

“Maybe we should try a bath later-” Viktor begins, releasing his hands.

“No!”

Yuuri’s yelp surprises them _both_.

“I-I mean- I’m-I’m sorry, M-Master, I didn’t mean to-”

Yuuri’s entire body is trembling from head to toe – Viktor fears he’s going to shake himself into whiplash if he continues. And there it is again. That title that makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He ignores it, though. Correcting Yuuri won’t help.

“Yuuri, please don’t get upset, it’s okay,” he says, kneeling down so that he’s not looming above the man. “If you want a bath now, you’ll have one. Let’s try again, okay? We’ll go slowly.”

There’s a question dancing on the tip of Yuuri’s tongue, but the man doesn’t ask it. He just lets Viktor take his quaking hands once again so he can get up.

“I’m going to put my arm around you,” Viktor warns. “Let me support you, all right?”

With one hand still holding Yuuri’s gently, he takes the other and circles it around Yuuri’s back to rest just above his waist. The Japanese man is only a couple of inches shorter than Viktor is, but he weighs almost nothing. They take their time getting to the bathroom. Viktor lets Yuuri set the shaky pace, and breathes a quiet sigh of relief when, a couple of steps into their journey, Yuuri finally lets Viktor take his weight.

Yuuri reaches immediately for the sink once they’re in the bathroom, leaning on that instead, so Viktor lets him go. He wants to leave and give the anxious man some privacy, but he _doesn’t_ want to leave and find that Yuuri has slipped or fallen trying to get into the bath on his own. So he tries to be covert as Yuuri shrugs off the bathrobe and pulls down his underwear with one hand.

He _tries_.

Last week, he was careful not to stare, looking at Yuuri’s face instead of his body as the doctor looked him over. But here, under the harsh glare of the bathroom lights, it’s hard to miss the rest of the marks.

The open wound at the top of his back isn’t nearly as angry-looking as it was before, but it still makes him cringe to see it. That, and all the other scabbed over cuts alongside it. There are other faint scars littered down the skin on his back too – all thin lines that could be from a knife or from a heavy-handed whipping. And little circles that look more pink than the silvery white of the lines. Viktor balks when he realises those are old cigarette burns. There aren’t many, but they are still there, scattered from his shoulders all the way down across his rear and the backs of his thighs. Greenish-yellow bruises blossom across the skin – rather pale for someone who is Japanese – around his hips and wrists too. And then there’s the bruising at the back of his neck. Viktor knows it circles around to the front where that leather collar has been pulled too tight.

Viktor’s always been rather soft-hearted. He can’t – doesn’t _want_ to – begin to imagine what kind of tortures Isaak and Matvei inflicted on this brown-eyed man. Chris certainly wasn’t this bad. He had bruises and chafed skin, yes, but not scars. Not like this.

“Um…” Yuuri whispers, glancing at Viktor over his shoulder, and for a moment, Viktor thinks he’s been caught staring. “Could…would y-you help me to the tub?”

It’s hard not to smile. Or at least do something to emote how the question makes him feel. Something like pride swells briefly in his chest, because that Yuuri has even _thought_ to ask for his help is already a step in the right direction. Hopefully.

“Of course,” he responds.

He’s overly paranoid about touching Yuuri the wrong way considering the man is completely naked, but to his credit, Yuuri doesn’t appear to be bothered by it. They make their way carefully to the tub, and Viktor holds Yuuri steady as he steps in and lowers himself into the warm water. When Yuuri sinks down fully, water engulfing his body from the waist down, he closes his eyes and lets out a comforted sigh. A tiny, barely there smile is on his face.

Viktor grins too, and turns away.

“I’ll leave you to get washed,” he says. “I’ll come back in about twenty minutes to help you out of the tub, okay?”

Yuuri makes a little sound of agreement as Viktor leaves. He doesn’t shut the door properly, but does pull it over to give Yuuri his privacy.

Staring at the messy bed, he knows he should change the sheets. Yuuri’s been sweating in them for a week now. But that’s a task for later. Much later. Instead, he lifts up the tray on the bedside table and makes for the kitchen, Makkachin trailing happily at his heels. He feels exhausted already and the day has barely begun.

Viktor doesn’t bother with the dishwasher, but washes Yuuri’s dishes by hand just to give him something to do. The images of Yuuri’s scarred back are burned into his mind just as the scars themselves were burned into Yuuri’s skin. It’s sickening. It’s awful. How much longer can he sit by and let Isaak and Matvei get away with this? He knows for a fact that Yuuri and Yurio will not be the last. Isaak in particular will want another. Viktor only hopes he can somehow intervene once more.

But then again, he doesn’t know how much more of this kind of thing he can take. Especially after last week. Maybe it was so harrowing because there were two this time instead of one. Maybe it’s their unique situation. Or maybe it’s because he looks at Yuuri, unwell as the man is, and feels the hot burn of guilt at the back of his neck when he thinks the man is kind of attractive.

Viktor thinks about how close to unconsciousness Yuuri was, and how hard Yurio stared at the ground. He can’t imagine what must have been going through the blond’s head at the time. He remembers Isaak’s harsh words and how he tugged Yuuri’s hair, and how Yurio reacted but there was nothing he could do. Yuuri – so hurt and sick and close to death – tied up and being treated worse than an animal right in front of Viktor…the memory makes him quiver. And Yurio, so distraught and terrified and desperate to do something. It almost broke his resolve then.

It’s not right. It’s not fair. He feels ten years older, somehow, because of the whole situation though he knows he has no right to be feeling bad when it’s his two new residents who have been through the ringer.

“Look at you, being so domestic!”

Makkachin barks and bounds to the kitchen door to greet Chris. Viktor takes a deep breath to compose himself and turns around as he places the last of the dishes on the rack to dry.

Chris’ smile fades. “Is everything all right?”

Viktor can never hide anything from Chris. The Swiss man _is_ his best friend.

“No,” he admits. “I’ve… I just helped Yuuri into the tub. I didn’t even notice all his scars until now.”

“Scars…” Chris repeats in a dark voice.

“I don’t know what they did to him,” Viktor goes on, his voice thick. “But there are old burns. From a cigarette.”

“Isaak,” Chris growls.

Viktor nods stiffly.

“It’s okay, Vitya,” Chris says. “Yuuri’s _here_ now. And so is little Yurio. Those bastards can’t hurt either of them any longer. Yuuri has been through a lot, and I’m sure having to watch it happen was no easier for Yurio. But we know they’ll be okay here.”

Viktor can only nod again, at first. “They’re both very strong. Even now, Yuuri amazes me. But I don’t know if it’s all an act because he thinks he’ll be punished if he breaks down.”

“Yuuri is incredibly strong,” Chris agrees. “And he’s in the right place for healing. But it will take time. You said so yourself.”

“I wish I could let him go home,” Viktor confesses.

Chris pauses, looking crestfallen for a moment. He’d never really had anywhere to go back to, so adjusting to life with Viktor was easier for him.

“Give it a little while. Maybe a few weeks so that he gets used to us. Then ask him if he’d like to visit home, wherever that may be. But wait until he realises he’s not a slave and understands why he can’t go home to stay.”

Viktor hums out a response.

“Talk to me, Viktor,” Chris says with a whine.

“How am I supposed to help him?”

“The same way you helped me,” Chris says gently.

“I don’t even remember how I did that!” Viktor groans, scratching Makkachin behind the ears. “I…I feel like I want to give him space. But leaving him alone feels wrong too. And I don’t want to introduce him to everyone too soon in case it overwhelms him.”

Chris makes a noise that tells Viktor he is thinking. Neither of the say anything for a while.

“Little Yuri’s already met us. Why not just let things run naturally? Yurio will tell Yuuri everything that happens, so we can build trust with him from a distance,” Chris suggests. “Although I don’t think it would hurt to introduce him to Phichit for now. That way when Otabek is dealing with the demands of his handful, Yuuri will have someone not as tall and scary to interact with.”

There is a momentary lapse in which Viktor sighs and Chris pats his shoulder firmly.

“Yuuri is very lucky that he already has Yurio here with him,” he says. “You don’t have to _do_ very much at all, my friend. Just relax. If you’re stressed, Yuuri will notice.”

As if a trigger has been pulled, Viktor forces the tension from his body. Chris is right. If anything, he has to at least calm down a little so that Yuuri doesn’t somehow think he’s dealing with anger here. And on a larger scale, he has to create an environment that feels safe and warm. Something that Yuuri can trust.

He’s not one hundred percent sure how to go about that, but he figures that he’ll show Yuuri around the house if the man is more stable after his bath.

“I’m sure it’ll be a good while before we have to deal with Isaak or Matvei again, at least,” Chris goes on.

“Thank the stars for that,” Viktor mutters. “Chris, I never even asked you how you’re doing after that,” he adds with a gasp, turning to fully face his friend.

Chris chuckles. “I’m fine. It was a rather empowering experience, actually. I think next time I’ll be bolder. Go for more of a free man look as opposed to the slave one. They didn’t seem too interested in me, to be honest, but I want them to notice me and see the man I’ve become.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea to me,” Viktor agrees with a smile. He told Chris last week to stay away from the ground floor until they left, but Chris was adamant he wanted to face his old Masters. There are a lot of things Chris has done over the last few years in order to help himself recover from his experiences with them. Viktor will never cease to be proud of the strength he shows. “Maybe one day Yuuri can get to that place too.”

The Swiss man smiles warmly. “I’m sure he will.”

“I’d better go and help him get dressed,” Viktor says quietly.

Chris murmurs a goodbye as Viktor leaves with Makkachin trotting beside him. He still feels truly disgusted by thoughts of what Yuuri has endured, but he tries not to let any of it show as he goes upstairs and re-enters Yuuri’s bedroom.

Quiet but obvious gasps and whimpers filter out from the bathroom. Viktor freezes halfway to the bathroom door, wondering for one wild moment if he’s accidentally listening to Yuuri pleasuring himself. His cheeks go warm, both at the initial thought, and at the fact that a second later, he realises those are pained noises coming from the bathroom and not ones of gratification. Swallowing down his embarrassment, he raps gently on the door.

“Yuuri, are you okay?”

He hears Yuuri move in the water, and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. At least Yuuri is still in the tub and hasn’t tried to get out himself.

“F-Fine!” Yuuri grits out.

Viktor frowns. “Are you sure? What happened?”

“Nothing!” Yuuri says quickly. His voice is strained. “I-I was just w-washing my hair.”

Frowning again at first, Viktor wonders why Yuuri is lying to him and if he should go in to – God forbid – make sure the man isn’t hurting himself on purpose. But then he realises. Warm water on Yuuri’s open wound is bound to be agony while there is still an infection going on, especially combined with the harsh chemicals in the shampoo if the suds slide down the back of his neck. Even the movements might have been too much for him. Sheepishly, he wonders if he should have offered to help, but then he feels certain Yuuri would have agreed out of perceived obligation. And that’s not what he wants. The whole point of taking slaves from people like Isaak and Matvei is to help them live as people once again, with independence and confidence.

Yuuri won’t have that wound forever, he reminds himself. Letting him hurt briefly is better than allowing this submissive and servile mindset to continue. It _has_ to be.

“Are you almost finished?” Viktor asks through the door.

“Y-Yes, M-” Yuuri cuts himself off before he can say it, and Viktor feels proud. “Yes. I’ll be quick.”

“Take your time,” Viktor suggests as he turns to Yuuri’s bed.

He strips the bed completely of all its sheets and pillowcases, then stares down at the naked bedding. Cautiously, he sniffs at it. It _looks_ clean enough, and it doesn’t smell like week old sweat as the removed sheets do. None of that needs to be washed.

Bundling the dirty sheets into his arms, he glances back to the bathroom when Yuuri yelps quietly again. Makkachin whines at his side.

He has an idea.

“Makkachin,” he whispers excitedly, and the dog’s ears perk up, his tail beginning to wag. “Is it bath time?”

Makkachin’s entire fluffy body wiggles with anticipation. The dog leaps about, his long tongue lolling out, desperate for Viktor to give him the command. Makkachin has always loved bath time. Viktor can’t help grinning, almost wickedly.

“ _Idti_ ,” he says.

That’s all he _needs_ to say. Makkachin turns tail instantly and bounds into the bathroom with far less care than Viktor would like, but Makkachin _is_ a large dog after all.

“Makkachin?” he hears Yuuri say. “Wait, no, no! Makkachin, n-”

The splash is almost deafening. Water sloshes in the tub and what sounds like a considerable amount of it splatters on the tiled floor. The unmistakable sound of Makkachin shaking off water is drowned out completely by the sound of Yuuri.

Sopping wet dog and flooded bathroom or not, at least his plan is having the desired effect.

Yuuri is laughing. Not quietly, either. It’s not a giggle, or a chuckle, or something secret. It’s real and unabashed and happy. Between bursts, Viktor can hear the man playfully admonishing Makkachin for the mess and for bursting in, but that’s all it is. Playful. Viktor wishes he could see the look on Yuuri’s face in this moment of carefree delight. But he won’t drag the man down by appearing in the doorway. So instead, he files away his confirmed suspicion that Makkachin has the ability to make Yuuri feel relaxed enough to laugh and hopes his pooch is up to the challenge of becoming someone else’s companion for a while.

He tosses the old sheets next to the door to the hall and hurriedly grabs fresh ones to put on. Hired help comes in once a week to do general cleaning, so he’s not used to doing this himself. He knows he’s going to have a nightmare in a little while. For now, he needs to help Yuuri out of the tub.

When he knocks and enters the bathroom, however, he sees that Yuuri is already out of the tub. The man is on his feet with one towel wrapped around his waist and another around his shoulders. Makkachin is still standing in the bath with the water draining around him.

Yuuri looks at Viktor nervously.

“He, um…he just j-jumped in,” he explains. “I-I di-”

“Makkachin,” Viktor says in a mock scolding voice. He shakes his head. “What have I told you about interrupting other people’s bath time?”

The dog simply wags his tail harder.

“We had an incident with a garden hose and a ruined barbecue once,” he tells Yuuri, mostly in an effort to calm the man without obviously reassuring him, which never seems to work too well. “Makkachin loves water! And he also loves chicken. If it weren’t for the hose, I’m fairly sure we would no longer have a deck outside.”

Yuuri’s lips quirk up. Viktor turns back to Makkachin and clicks his fingers so that the dog jumps out of the tub. He shakes again, spraying both Viktor and Yuuri with water.

“Look at you,” Viktor says with a dramatic sigh. Makkachin’s body wiggles. “And look at the mess you’ve made. Now I’m going to have to mop this up.”

“I can-” Yuuri begins.

Viktor cuts him off before he even has the chance to really start. “Don’t be silly, Yuuri! Makkachin’s my dog, I’ll clean up his mess.” He pauses. “If you’re feeling up to it, there are clothes in the drawers. You can get dressed while I get a mop. Oh, and Makkachin _loves_ being towel-dried,” he adds with a wink. Maybe drying Makkachin will be therapeutic for Yuuri.

“C…Clothes?” Yuuri repeats.

“Yes!” Viktor says with a nod as he exits the bathroom with a firm finger telling Makkachin to stay. He hears Yuuri trail out after him. “I wasn’t sure of the sizing. Honestly, I thought you would be a lot smaller, so when you arrived I was a little surprised. But Phichit was kind enough to lend you some of his the other day. You two are about the same size. I’d say you’re definitely taller, but I’m sure his things will fit you at least until we can get you your own. So just pick whatever you’d like from- Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

Viktor is startled to turn and find that Yuuri is furiously wiping tears from his eyes. Is it something Viktor said? But Yuuri only shakes his head, sniffling and wiping at his eyes.

“N-Nothing,” he says softly.

“Did I say something upsetting?” he asks, sure that he’s said nothing of the sort but is also fairly assured that he _does_ often say things he doesn’t realise are offensive.

“No, no, y-you didn’t.” Yuuri shakes his head again. “I just… A-Are you sure you want me to…wear clothes?”

Oh. _Oh_.

Chris told him something a long time ago. Isaak and Matvei _never_ allowed him to wear clothes. Chris was allowed underwear when neither of his Masters required him, but nothing more. And even then, it was skimpy and not at all modest, which Chris explained almost made him feel worse.

Yuuri probably hasn’t worn clothes in well over a year.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “I want you to do whatever makes you feel comfortable. If you’d rather not wear clothes, that’s fine. But if you’d feel more comfortable wearing something, I’d like you to wear something. All right?”

“B-But, what would _you_ like me to d-do, M-Ma-?”

Viktor sighs. He can’t help it. He’s not angry, he’s more upset. It’s disheartening to see that Yuuri won’t make his own decisions, even at this early stage. Whatever happened to the bolder Yuuri who wasn’t afraid to ask for things from the first week? Does it always have to be about Yurio?

His sigh makes Yuuri flinch, which makes Viktor feel even worse.

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri blurts out quickly, ducking his head and curling his body subtly as if he’s expecting a hit. But the man doesn’t back away despite how hard his body is suddenly shaking. “I-I’m sorry, I just- I just d-didn’t know- I wasn’t sure if-if- I didn’t m-mean to make you angry, M-Master.”

There it is. That title again. Viktor has never regretted sighing so much in his life. He opens his mouth to tell Yuuri that he’s not angry at all, it’s okay, please don’t get upset. But Yuuri doesn’t let him.

“J-Just please tell m-me what you want me to do,” he stammers. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I-I didn’t want to make the-the wrong choice. I don’t want t-to displease you. I…I should be p-punished for m-making you mad. I sh-should-”

Viktor can feel the progress they’ve made – however minimal – slipping through his fingers.

“Yuuri, I’m not going to punish you.”

Evidently, that is the _wrong_ thing to say.

All at once, Yuuri’s eyes snap up to meet his while he drops to his knees. Viktor jumps when Yuuri reaches up to grip the sides of his thighs, his hands clumsily rubbing and stroking.

“Please don’t take it out on Yurio!” he begs, and suddenly a couple of things make more sense to Viktor. “I’ll be good! I-I can be good. I won’t do it again! I’ll d-do whatever you want. Whatever you want!”

Viktor is frozen in his shock as Yuuri leans forward and presses his tear-stained cheek against Viktor’s thigh. And the Japanese man begins to rub and nuzzle, his nose coming dangerously close to Viktor’s crotch, and then he’s pressing chaste but _loud_ little kisses up Viktor’s thigh, his hands still rubbing in a way that might be erotic if Yuuri wasn’t terrified and if Viktor wanted this.

“L-Let me make it up to you, M-Master,” Yuuri whispers, and though he’s stuttering and shivering, there’s a husky edge to his voice. It’s forced, and makes Viktor feel like he’s going to be sick.

“Yuuri, stop,” Viktor says.

The Japanese man doesn’t stop. Viktor isn’t even sure Yuuri hears him.

“I’ll make you f-feel so good,” Yuuri continues, and his fingers tease just shy of Viktor’s crotch, but Viktor is rooted to the spot. He can’t make himself move back. Can’t make himself move at all. “D-Don’t you want to f-fuck my mouth? Don’t you w-want to feel my lips a-and my tongue? Your c-cock at the back of m-”

“That’s enough, Yuuri,” Viktor says, a little more firmly, but he can hear the distress in his own voice. “Stop it.”

Again, Yuuri doesn’t stop. Stammered, obscene phrases tumble from his mouth which he presses around Viktor’s cock like he’s looking for the spot that will make Viktor melt. Oh God, he feels sick. All he did was sigh. Why did he sigh?

He has to make this stop, but he doesn’t want to shove Yuuri away in case he hurts him or – fully knowing that Yuuri will be used to rough handling – makes it worse. But then Yuuri’s nose is pressed against his groin through his clothes, and his mouth is hot against his clothed dick, and his hands are fumbling with his belt. No, he can’t let this go on any longer.

So he does the only thing he can think of doing that _won’t_ somehow spur Yuuri on.

“Yuuri, _please_!”

 _Then_ Yuuri freezes. Only briefly, though, for the next moment, he is wrenching himself away and is crying rather loudly into his hands. His breathing is choppy and uneven, scattered. Viktor doesn’t know what to do. Whatever just happened…it makes so little sense. Chris had _never_ tried to-

“I-I-I’m so-orry,” Yuuri babbles. A series of unintelligible noises escape him, but Viktor can’t tell if they’re attempts at words or not. He can only make sense of some of it. “I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I w-wanted to-to- I-I ca-an’t breathe, fuck, I c-can’t b-”

Viktor doesn’t want to. He _really_ doesn’t want to. But if it’ll help…

“Yuuri,” he says. His voice is hard, forceful. “Look at me right now.”

Trembling, Yuuri raises his tearful eyes to meet Viktor’s. His face his red, lips tinged blue as he hyperventilates. He obviously wants so badly to look away, but Viktor can’t let him.

“I want you to calm down,” he says in that same authoritative tone, hoping and _praying_ that it won’t make Yuuri worse. “I want you to look at me, and copy my breathing. You want to make your Master happy, right?”

Yuuri nods erratically.

“Then do as I say,” Viktor orders. “Copy my breathing.”

His head shakes wildly. “I-I c-ca-n’t, I-”

“I’ll decide what you can and can’t do, do I make myself clear?” Viktor snaps, and he _hates_ the way his voice sounds. “Copy my breathing, _now._ ”

It has the desired effect. Yuuri listens and does as he’s told when Viktor tells him to breathe in, and does the same when Viktor tells him to breathe out. It takes several minutes for Yuuri to be able to do it exactly as Viktor is instructing, but by then, Yuuri is calmer. His eyes are red, his face is shiny with old tears, but he doesn’t seem to be panicking any more.

Viktor hates pretending to be forceful and unkind, but it’s helping right now, and that is all that matters.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispers again, dropping his head. “I d-didn’t mean-”

It’s _helping_. That’s all that matters.

Viktor snaps his fingers at Makkachin, who is still sitting obediently in the bathroom but is whining eagerly. The dog’s ears are down as he ambles up to Yuuri and sits in front of him, pressing his head to the man’s shoulder. And Yuuri takes the bait, uncaring of the fact that Makkachin is still soaking wet as he wraps his arms around the dog, burying his face in the greying fur and gripping the curls like they are a lifeline.

“Yuuri, look at me, listen very carefully,” he commands after a moment, and Yuuri raises his head up but does not let go of the dog. “I don’t want to have to repeat myself. I am not going to punish you. I am not going to punish Yurio. There _is_ no punishment. Do you know why that is?”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“Do you remember what I told you earlier? Before the doctor arrived?”

Viktor can see the cogs turning in Yuuri’s head, but the man doesn’t speak.

“Say it,” he orders.

“Y-You said that y-you’re not my Master,” Yuuri bites out, looking shocked at his own admission.

“I did,” Viktor agrees. “You don’t _have_ a Master any more, Yuuri. You are your own person. There is no punishment, there is no obligation to please. I want you to say it out loud. Tell me that you have no Master.”

“I-I have no M-Master,” Yuuri breathes.

“Again,” Viktor says. He doesn’t know if Yuuri finally believes him and is saying it to let himself truly feel it, or if he’s just doing what Viktor says because he _doesn’t_ believe him. Either way, Viktor’s always been a believer in self-efficacy. “Say it again.”

“I have n-no Master.”

“Good.” Viktor nods. “And Yuuri, I want you to look at yourself in the mirror every day and say it until you truly believe it. Do you understand me?”

“Y-Yes.”

Viktor knows it seems a little contradictory to tell Yuuri he’s not a slave then give him an order, but it’s the only thing that seems to be working right now. The other man looks down again, but seems marginally calmer than he was before. With an entirely silent sigh of relief that drops his ‘Master’ façade, Viktor makes to get to his feet.

Yuuri’s hand shoots out to grab his.

“I…” Yuuri begins. He is still gripping Makkachin, but he looks up of his own volition. “Th-Thank you. When I get…like that, I c-can’t pull myself out.”

Smiling a genuine smile, Viktor squeezes Yuuri’s hand gently and continues to get to his feet. Yuuri accepts his help in getting up. Makkachin hovers at Yuuri’s side.

“You’re welcome, Yuuri.”

Viktor lets his hand go, and Yuuri hugs himself awkwardly.

“Now, what would you like to do?”

Yuuri’s muscles go tense, but Viktor almost sings when the man looks him dead in the eye for the briefest of moments and says, “I think I’d…like to get d-dressed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then another step forward :P
> 
> The chapter in which Viktor learns right quick to be EXTRA careful about what he does in front of Yuuri.
> 
> Sorry for the angst and that uncomfortable part at the end. Next chapter, we're heading back to Yuri and Otabek, who are probably having a grand old time trudging through the freezing Russian snow :P Probably.
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so long >.< I DID say updates would slow down a fair bit. Hopefully it'll be no more than two weeks between chapters though!


	10. Walk and Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri would sell both his kidneys if it meant Otabek would just shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too pleased with this chapter, but I've been trying to fix it for three days and I'm making no progress so it's time to say FUCK IT and post anyway.
> 
> Content warnings: Yuri's foul mouth, mention of previous non-consensual blowjob, and honestly? I reckon that's about it.

**Yuri**

“I look ridiculous.”

“No one cares what you look like, let’s just go.”

Yuri pouts like he’s eight and not eighteen. Perhaps a friendlier person would have told him “no, you look fine, don’t worry”. Not Otabek Altin though. No, Otabek talks a lot of talk about being polite, but apparently he’s also painfully blunt – a lot more so than Yuri is. Yuri doubts he _means_ to sound like an asshole, which is something. And he kind of appreciates the comment all the same, because he _does_ look stupid and he wouldn’t have believed the man if he said Yuri looked fine.

Wearing borrowed clothes – mostly those which belong to Phichit because the Thai man is the closest in size to Yuri – he feels out of place. The snow boots actually belong to Viktor, and they are far too big for Yuri’s dainty feet, but Phichit’s feet are even smaller. They slide a couple of centimetres with every step, so the only thing stopping his feet getting blisters are the numerous pairs of thermal socks he’s also wearing. The thermal pants and the thick padded jacket, however, belong to Phichit. Yuri kind of likes Phichit. Or at least doesn’t _dislike_ him. The Thai man isn’t annoying like Viktor, or gross like Chris, or frustratingly stoic like Otabek is. He knows he doesn’t have much to go on considering he’s spent the last week not leaving Yuuri’s side, but there’s not a whole lot about Phichit to dislike that he can see.

Except his fashion sense. Yuri likes red, but Phichit’s jacket is a gaudy scarlet colour with a ridiculously fluffy synthetic fur lining. He’ll look even more stupid if he puts the hood up, so he stubbornly refuses to do so as he follows Otabek downstairs. He doesn’t even _want_ to go outside. It took Viktor a good half hour to convince him to even leave Yuuri to take a shower, and then another half hour to go and get some fresh air. In his defence, Otabek probably doesn’t want to chaperone Yuri in his walk, but there’s the whole issue about Yuri possibly running away that they have to contend with.

Yuri’s not an idiot. He knows the law. He knows that here in Russia, slaves can’t be legally freed, and he knows the risks that come with being a runaway slave. But Yuri is also headstrong and reckless – something everyone in this house has already picked up on despite that he’s not done much for the last seven days. Not that he would ever leave Yuuri here by himself – something everyone is _also_ aware of – but no one can say what he might do when faced with temptation. And Viktor says that he should probably spend more time with Otabek anyway considering the man is his legal Master and if there’s anything Yuri wants to do, Otabek has to be with him. This makes him grit his teeth, but he keeps his tongue in check. He still doesn’t know if he believes this whole “you’re not really a slave” thing, but with the promise of being afforded far more freedom than he had with Isaak and Matvei, he decides to behave placidly. At least for now. Oddly enough, he’s certain Viktor doesn’t want to _hurt_ Yuuri (but what the man _does_ want, Yuri doesn’t know). However, that’s the extent of his trust for these people.

At the door, Yuri hesitates. It’s made of glass so he can see out into the expansive snowy garden, and the sight of it makes him literally pause for some reason. Otabek slides the door open. A rush of icy air hits him at first before it settles.

“What’s wrong?”

As well as being “polite”, emotionless, and blunt, Otabek is also far too perceptive. Viktor said he has to be and that’s why he makes such a good bodyguard.

But Yuri doesn’t _know_ what’s wrong. Is it because he’s not been allowed to wander outside, even supervised, for so long? Or is it because he’s still thinking about Yuuri upstairs, possibly scared and still too weak to be up and moving? He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry.

“Yuri.”

Otabek’s voice is soft but jarring. Yuri glances at him. Maybe he doesn’t want to step outside because this feels like some kind of test.

“If you don’t want to go out, that’s oka-”

“I want to go!” Yuri snaps. “I was just- I was only-”

Oh, well that’s just great. Immediately, he wishes he’d not tried to explain himself to Otabek. This man deserves nothing from him, and he won’t be getting anything for as long as Yuri can help it.

“Do you want a minute?” Otabek asks, and Yuri curses him for being so fucking considerate. It’s a _lot_ harder to stay aggressive when someone is being so kind. Yuri would never admit aloud that he feels a little starved of kindness. “Or are you ready now?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Yuri snarls, storming past Otabek to step out onto the crunchy snow. “I don’t want to spend any more time with you than I have to.”

Yuri doesn’t know if the remark hurts or elicits any kind of emotion out of the Kazakh, but he doesn’t really care. When there is no response or immediate retribution, it’s kind of hard to give a damn. All he hears is Otabek step out after him and slide the door shut. He manages not to flinch at the noise.

Neither of them say anything as they walk. Otabek is only one step behind Yuri but is still walking to the side, so Yuri can see him in his peripheral vision. He does his damnedest to ignore the man in favour of pretending he’s alone – it gives the sensation of that freedom he’s been yearning for. Snow crunching underfoot is the sound he focuses on because he feels like it’s been years since he’s heard it. The feeling of it giving way underneath him instils a kind of thrill inside him, even if it’s really hard snow that’s frozen over.

He knows the gardens are extensive – he’s seen them from Yuuri’s bedroom window – but he doesn’t really know where to go. At some point, he realises he’s trailed way off the actual path, but Otabek doesn’t complain. At first, Yuri follows Makkachin’s old pawprints to see where the overgrown puppy likes to play, but eventually there are too many and they start to mix with human footprints. So he just walks and tries to make it look like he has a purpose.

This whole thing seems kind of pointless. There is nothing to do, and there isn’t a whole lot to see either. He suspects the gardens probably look better in summer when they’re not covered in frozen snow and the plants aren’t dead. But the cold, on the other hand. It bites at his face and ears, yet it also makes him feel warmer inside. It seems to remind him of something.

As if reading his mind, Otabek suddenly asks, “Are you bored?”

“No,” Yuri says quickly, because yes, he’s kind of bored, but he doesn’t want to go inside yet. Even if this endeavour has no good reason. Whatever Viktor said about stretching his legs and being stir crazy is bullshit because it’s Viktor who said it. But he definitely doesn’t want to go inside just yet.

“I was only asking.”

“Well, don’t! I’ll tell you if I’m ready to go back,” Yuri growls.

Otabek shrugs and doesn’t say anything else while Yuri awkwardly wanders. He tries to figure out a general location for the mansion, but he can’t. Back when he and Yuuri were first taken, he didn’t know where the auction house was. He’d never known where Isaak and Matvei lived. And this huge house is surrounded by dense forest – as well as that same huge iron fence, Yuri notes. He’s not nearly small enough to slip through the bars, and even if he could, he has no idea where they are.

For a while, he entertains fantasies of escaping. Wild fantasies of breaking those bars, or scaling the fence. With Yuuri in tow, because he’d never leave the man here alone. He knows it’s foolish and is never under any delusions that these are not fantasies. But it’s always nice to dream. It’s nice to imagine that his details are _not_ currently stored within the Russian Slave Database. It’s nice to imagine that he could ever go back to live with his grandpa.

A wave of nostalgia hits him all at once. God, how he misses his grandpa. The ingrained smell of the old man’s cigars in all the furniture, the satisfying feeling of a stomach full of pirozhki, and the cat hair embedded in all of his clothes. All of that is home. His grandpa is home. And that feeling of being home…

Yuri suddenly wants to scream. At everything. He wants to scream at Yuuri for not protecting him properly exactly as he’d promised over a year ago, at Isaak and Matvei for being disgusting and awful, at Viktor Nikiforov for daring to suggest things are going to be okay now, at Otabek for being Otabek. But mostly, he wants to just scream because he kind of feels like it will make him feel better. The law is fucked. It’s so fucked, and unfair, and disgusting. Why the hell is it legal in this God-forsaken country to steal people off the streets and force them into a lifetime of slavery? Why is it perfectly within the law for Isaak and Matvei to do the things they’ve done?

His whole life, Yuri has been selfish when it comes to materialistic things. But there’s not a lot he _truly_ wants in this world. He would concede defeat and give up his skating forever, he would even spend a night with Isaak, if it meant he could go home.

It’s so cold, so the single tear that dares to spill down his cheek practically burns his skin. He wipes it away furiously. He can’t think about his grandpa right now. Not in front of Otabek who’s probably noticed his slip.

To his credit, though, Otabek says nothing. He just continues to follow Yuri around the gardens without so much as a word. At least until Yuri reaches up to scratch at the bandage covering his hickey.

“Is the mark almost gone?”

Yuri can’t help but stop dead. The question, for whatever reason, makes his blood boil.

“Don’t you have anything better to be doing than trying to make conversation with me?” he spits.

“Of course,” Otabek replies evenly. “I could be working on my bike.”

At this, Yuri turns. Mostly because he can’t believe Otabek has the audacity to _agree_ with him on this one, but a little because his interest is piqued.

“Your bike?” Yuri asks.

For the tiniest second, Otabek’s lips quirk up. “If you’re interested in motorcycles, I’d be happy t-”

“I’m not interested in them!” Yuri hisses. It’s a blatant lie, one that he is sure Otabek sees straight through. Especially since he can feel his face going red. He’s always been interested in motorcycles. There’s something inherently dangerous about them that he finds outrageously attractive.

“Well, if you ever _do_ find yourself curious, just say so.”

“I won’t,” Yuri mutters under his breath. “Listen, how about we _don’t_ talk any more until I say I’m ready to go inside?”

Otabek’s eyes narrow just a fraction, and his eyebrows turn up in the middle. He sighs.

“Yuri.” His voice is irritatingly soft. “You don’t have to tell me what happened-”

“Good, because I’m not going to.”

“-but I just want to know if you’re all right.”

“I’m _fine,_ not that it’s any of your concern. We’re not talking about this anymore,” Yuri says with a kind of finality as he turns and begins walking away.

He can hear Otabek close behind him and now all he can think about is that awful taste and that horrible sense of choking and-

“You haven’t had anyone to talk to, Yuri,” Otabek insists. “Whatever you’ve seen, whatever happened to you just before you were brought to us, it can’t have been easy. And having your friend unconscious for a week wouldn’t have helped. You may not think I care, but I _do_.”

“Why?” Yuri fires back.

Otabek doesn’t miss a beat. “Because I’m a decent human being. I only want to help you.”

“Yeah?” Yuri asks. “Well you can start by shutting the fuck up. I don’t want to talk about this, especially not with _you_.”

Yuri misses the pond completely. It’s not like he’s looking where he’s going when he’s stomping through the snow angrily. So when he steps down on ice and feels himself slip, there’s a moment where he’s only _more_ irate before the adrenaline spikes and he gasps.

That hard crash onto the solid ice or the freezing snow never comes. Arms circle around his chest to stop him from falling, and he instinctually grabs them to feel better supported as his feet continue to slip. His body stays put though, held up by those strong arms that pull him a couple of steps back so that he’s on a less slippery surface.

It takes him all of two seconds to register that these are _Otabek’s_ arms that are wound far too tightly around him. His sudden fright turns immediately back to rage. With renewed fervour, he claws as best he can at Otabek’s thickly padded arms.

Just as Otabek catches the hint and is releasing him, Yuri turns and snarls.

“Don’t _ever_ touch me!”

He doesn’t know if Otabek sees something in his eyes or not, but something in _Otabek’s_ eyes change. It’s as if he’s hurt by Yuri’s words somehow, or at least affected by them.

“Yuri, I-”

“You want to know what happened with this fucking hickey? Will that get you off my back? Okay, I’ll tell you.” He hasn’t a clue what’s come over him, but he can’t stop talking. “ _Isaak_ gave me that because he loves to mark his slaves up. And after that, he shoved his gross dick down my throat and didn’t let me go until I swallowed all of what came out of it. Then, wouldn’t you know it? A few hours later, you were listening to him tell me how much he couldn’t wait to shoot Yuuri as if he’s some kind of animal.”

Pride for himself wells up in his chest. He’s managed to admit that all aloud without somehow bursting into tears like he feels he wants to. But now a kind of sickening hollowness is carving out his stomach because Otabek is just staring at him with the faintest traces of pity on his face. Well, Yuri won’t stand for that.

“ _Don’t_ look at me like that!”

“Like what?” Otabek looks genuinely confused now.

“Like you feel sorry for delicate little Yuri,” Yuri hisses.

Now the Kazakh seems offended. “I wasn’t-”

“Yes, you were!”

Otabek gives a lengthy sigh, and again, Yuri is reminded of his grandpa. It makes him hesitate. The Kazakh seizes the opportunity.

“I don’t feel sorry for you, Yuri,” he says. “And I certainly don’t think you’re delicate. I just think it’s unfair that you’ve been shouldering that burden alone for seven days. You should talk to your friend.”

“Yuuri doesn’t know,” Yuri finds himself saying. “And he’s _never_ going to find out. He doesn’t need more shit on his shoulders.”

Otabek clears his throat quietly. “Yuri…”

“ _What_?”

“You have the eyes of a soldier.” The Kazakh says after a beat.

“I- wait, what?” Yuri blinks a couple of times as if that will help him understand what Otabek has just said.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Otabek says. “So we won’t talk about it. But I also know you’ve been through a lot. You’ve seen a lot, you’ve had to _do_ a lot. And yet there’s so much strength about you. It shows in your eyes.”

Yuri doesn’t know what to say. The eyes of a soldier? _Him_? He’s never heard anything so ridiculous in all his life. Yuri’s only ever been small, skinny, and delicate. People have always made a point to illustrate how breakable he is – like blown glass. Everyone, that is, except for Yuuri, despite listening to Isaak describe him as dainty and pretty for over a year.

Yes, Yuri’s always been a little doll, yet here is someone telling him he’s a soldier. He’s always been a kitten when all he ever wanted to be was a tiger.

“There’s nothing wrong with being strong. It’s so admirable to fight like you have for someone else. But it’s all right to let yourself be weak sometimes too. And I’m not saying this because I’m waiting for you to give yourself to me or anything ridiculous like that, I’m not saying it because I want anything from you. I just want to help. If you don’t want to talk to Yuuri, even if you don’t want to talk to me, there are people here for you that you can trust.”

Yuri doesn’t trust anyone here as far as he could throw them. And for some reason, this talk of trust and what Otabek wants or doesn’t want from him reminds him of something Isaak said last week. Something about Otabek.

“What did you do that made Isaak think you’d be back in Kazakhstan?” he blurts.

The man’s dark eyes widen for a second. Yuri feels a small stab of victory at that. Any reaction he can evoke seems to bring him that feeling considering Otabek’s face is impassive at least ninety percent of the time.

“That’s not relevant,” the Kazakh says, his voice icy as the chill around them.

“How is it not? You want me to trust you, right? You want to help me? Then help me trust you by answering my question.”

“I don’t think you want to-”

“I’ll decide what I want to hear!”

“Yuri, I don’t _like_ talking about it, so please don’t ask me again.”

That makes him hesitate. Just a smidgen of guilt – definitely no more than that, no way – bites at the back of his neck when he sees Otabek’s face, all twisted with discomfort and something almost painful. Yuri wants to _demand_ Otabek tell him what happened, but he’s reminded that the man has always – _always_ – respected his wishes. If Yuri asks him (or tells him) to do something, Otabek usually does it.

Yuri doesn’t feel like Otabek’s equal though the man has insisted they _are._ And he realises that if he _wants_ to get rid of this Master/slave vibe to their relationship, he has to start treating the man like’s he’s human. Something in his head tries to tell him that’s exactly what he’s been doing, but Yuri knows that’s not true. He has been treating Otabek like a Master for the past week on the rare occasion that they saw each other. Granted, he hasn’t been obeying any commands, but that’s because Otabek seems to have been very careful about not giving any. This unequal treatment is purely one-sided. Yuri hisses and spits as soon as Otabek opens his mouth – he accuses and is quietly disrespectful while silently fearing the day retribution will come.

But it’s been a week, and still, Otabek (and Viktor) have been nothing but nice to him. Yuri is starting to think he’s been paranoid and that there really _is_ no trick to this. Maybe Otabek really is just a decent human being who’s as much a victim of circumstance as he is.

Yuri lets himself mull it over for a bit before coming to the humbling conclusion that he has been really unfair to the Kazakh. And it’s especially unfair to expect him to talk about something he clearly isn’t ready to talk about.

He bites his lip. “Okay,” he says softly. “…sorry.”

Otabek nods. The pair of them stand there in the snow, silent and awkward.

“We should…go inside now,” Yuri says. “It’s freezing.”

“Good idea.” Otabek sounds relieved as he falls into step beside Yuri. “The doctor is probably finished with your friend by now.”

Yuri was thinking of trying to start some kind of normal conversation with Otabek, but at Yuuri’s mention, his mind drifts away from that idea. For the last two days, Yuuri has been becoming a lot more lucid, not to mention how he’s been able to roll himself over and even sit himself up at times. It’s been a very long time since he’s seen Yuuri on his feet and able to stand. His heart thrums at the prospect of seeing his friend do something as simple as _walk_ again.

He glances at Otabek out of the corner of his eye as they step back into the stifling warmth of the mansion. Maybe he’ll start making an effort to be more civil to the man. Maybe.

At least until he does something that warrants Yuri’s claws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang it, Yuri >.< Otabek just wants to help you! But what is his secret, I wonder :)
> 
> The next chapter is gonna be filled with so much fluff and silliness, you're going to wonder if it's even the same story. I'd LIKE to do an Otabek POV, but it won't fit with the next chapter, so we'll stick in Yuri's head for now.


	11. A Light Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri watches his friend carefully as the man struggles to take it all in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: None. WOO! 
> 
> This chapter is mostly a mindless breather from all the SAD. Not much happens. But I think it's needed :P

**Yuri**

Yuri told himself he _might_ try to make more of an effort to be civil to Otabek Altin. He said that he would _maybe_ try to be more polite, until the other man does something to warrant Yuri’s scathing glares and his harsh words.

Yuri didn’t really expect it to take less than five minutes.

He’s probably being unfair, but the condescending question rings in his ears like it was screamed at him instead of asked gently. In fact, he _knows_ he’s being unfair. All Otabek did was ask if he wanted a hand getting the boots off. The boots that he still can’t unlace because his fingers are paralysed with numbness. So really, Otabek is being perfectly amenable and helpful, but Yuri takes his offered assistance to imply he is weak and unable to do things for himself.

Completely unreasonable, Yuri tells Otabek to fuck off, which earns him the flash of an amused smirk before the man is rolling his eyes and sighing deeply. Pride lets him struggle on. It takes him a solid three minutes to unlace _one_ boot and kick it off. To Otabek’s credit, he doesn’t stare. He just sets about unlacing his own boots and tucking them away by the door. Thank God for that. It’s a little embarrassing for someone who used to be a skater to be unable to work long laces.

He makes a point of pretending Otabek isn’t there as the man follows him through the house and back up the stairs. In fact, he’s focusing on ignoring the Kazakh _so_ hard that at first, he doesn’t register the sound coming from Yuuri’s room.

When he stops at the threshold of the open door and stares at his friend – who is sitting on the sill of the bay window – he’s pretty sure his heart stops too. Yuuri has comfortable-looking clothes on his frame, and a pillow with its case halfway on in his arms. And he’s laughing.

Oh, it’s been a long time since he’s heard Yuuri laugh. Musical and rare, and a little precious.

Wildly, Yuri searches around for whatever it is that’s making the Japanese man giggle like that, and it doesn’t take him long to find it. Someone whom he can only assume to be Viktor Nikiforov is on the floor, completely lost inside a duvet cover. And his oversized poodle is making a show of attacking his owner through the sheet. Viktor’s voice is tinged with amusement, but he still yelps inside the sheet when Makkachin’s huge paws bat at various flailing body parts.

Yuri is only given half a second to wonder what the fuck the silver-haired man is doing before his friend notices him standing there.

“Yurio!” And his voice is so strong and unwavering and _happy_ that Yuri nearly falls to the floor.

“Yurio?” comes Viktor’s voice from inside the sheet. “Where is he? Yuuri, I can’t _see_! Makkachin, help me!”

“Don’t call me that!” Yuri snaps.

Yuuri giggles again, more subdued this time, while Yuri stands there in the doorway wondering why on earth a man like Viktor Nikiforov is rolling around inside a duvet cover and being so silly. Behind him, he hears Otabek sigh. Yuri swears it sounds almost fond. The Kazakh brushes past him gently and heads for the animated lump inside the sheet. At this movement, Yuri sees the Japanese man sitting on the windowsill stiffen and his smile falls.

Fuck that.

Yuri ignores Otabek as the man helps Viktor, making his way straight over to Yuuri. The man looks a little pale – definitely still tired and not feeling one hundred percent – but he looks years younger. And he smells like soap. A little like wet dog too, but mostly fresh and clean.

“That’s just Otabek,” Yuri explains.

“The…bodyguard?” Yuuri asks, uncertainty in his eyes. Yuri nods. “And your…your M-”

“Ew, don’t say that word,” Yuri groans quietly. “But yeah. Well, no. Sort of. Fuck, it’s complicated, I think.”

Yuuri looks a little like he understands, but then he goes right back to eyeing the dark-skinned man warily. Yuri can’t really blame him. Strangers aren’t to be trusted. _No one_ is to be trusted, but strangers especially. It’s impossible to work out their intentions.

“Don’t worry about him,” Yuri suggests. “He won’t come near you. And if he does, I’ll kick his ass.”

A little smile on Yuuri’s face makes the whole idea of Otabek as a Master slip from his mind.

He glances back to see Otabek finally wrestling Viktor free of the sheet, and the Russian man straightens up looking utterly dishevelled. His silver hair sticks up in every direction, and his face is flushed and damp with sweat. But there is a warm grin on his face. One that’s almost as annoying as Otabek’s total _lack_ of expression.

“Yurio!” Viktor greets, and _God,_ Yuri wishes the man wouldn’t call him that. “Yuuri and I were just changing the sheets! I’ve never changed sheets before. Perhaps that was obvious.” The man gives an embarrassed little chuckle. “Anyway, good news! The doctor says Yuuri should take it easy for a couple more weeks, but he’s been given the all-clear to be up and about! Isn’t that wonderful?”

Yeah, it is, Yuri thinks. Because just seven days ago, Yuri was watching his friend topple under the weight of his own body after a fairly standard bit of rough treatment from Isaak. Last week, he looked at his only friend and was sure he was going to die and leave Yuri alone in this overwhelming new environment. Now? Now they don’t have to say goodbye, and it’s all thanks to the goofy silver-haired man petting his dog across the room.

Yuri feels a surge of gratitude, but quashes it down. No way in hell is he letting any of these people see any weaknesses.

“That’s great,” he says stiffly.

“And he wants to- Yuuri, tell him what you want to do!” Viktor babbles excitedly.

Yuuri looks shy, the faintest hint of a blush on his face, as he lifts his eyes to meet Yuri’s. His voice is feather-soft. “I want to…make katsudon for everyone.”

“Katsudon!” Viktor repeats. “Authentic Japanese cuisine, right here in my house! I can’t wait!”

Yuri feels his throat constrict. Yuuri wants to make them all his favourite meal. He’s spoken about it often, and told Yuri how quickly the dish used to make him put on weight. Yuri thinks his friend must miss it a lot, especially seeing as it’s something his mother made. It kind of makes Yuri want to make pirozhki too. Not that he can cook worth a damn.

“I-It wouldn’t be as good as how my mother used to make it,” Yuuri whispers.

“Oh, Yuuri, I’m sure it’ll be the best meal any of us have ever eaten!” Viktor reassures him with a huge, heart-shaped smile. “Phichit can help you. He loves cooking!”

“R-Right,” Yuuri says with a nod.

“Phichit’s not so bad,” Yuri tells him when he notices the man’s discomfort. “I think you’ll like him.”

The pair of them (and Otabek) watch Viktor struggle with the sheets without moving or offering to help. If anything, Yuuri seems to find a lot of amusement in watching the man fumble and work up a sweat as he finishes stuffing the pillow into its new case.

It takes Viktor _far_ too long to do such a simple task, but when he’s done, he turns to face them both with a wide smile on his face.

“Are either of you hungry? It’s almost lunch time.”

Yuri is _starving_ but his friend mutters that he’s still feeling a little full from the breakfast Viktor brought him. Yuri almost snorts at that. The Russian man can’t even change sheets, how could he possibly manage to make breakfast? Viktor reassures Yuuri that it’s fine if he’s not hungry, and asks him if he wants to come with them anyway so he can learn to find his way around the house. After Yuri gives him an encouraging nod, the Japanese man agrees.

When he’s on his feet, Yuuri is ever so slightly unbalanced. A little wobbly. He grips Yuri’s shoulder to steady himself before Yuri takes his hand and starts to lead. Viktor smiles warmly at the pair of them before he and Otabek head into the hallway first. Yuri kind of appreciates that, though he doesn’t know if they’re doing it on purpose – what he _does_ know is that Yuuri’s anxiety would sky-rocket if the two men walked behind.

Viktor blathers animatedly as they walk, pointing in every which direction and telling Yuuri what rooms lie there. He makes a strong point of reassuring Yuuri that he can go anywhere in the house he wishes, but asks him to be careful while he’s still recovering. Yuri whispers that he’ll show him around later and in response, Yuuri squeezes his hand gratefully.

They manage the stairs surprisingly well. Yuuri uses one hand on the banister while gripping Yuri’s own hand with far more strength than the Russian would have thought him capable of at this point. It makes him relax a little. His friend is definitely on the mend. It causes another spasm of gratitude to race through his body, because regardless of what Viktor’s true intentions are, Yuri can at least rest assured that the man will take care of his friend’s health. They may not ever have to face the possibility of saying goodbye like that again.

There’s an unexpected amount of shouting coming from the kitchen as the four of them – and Makkachin – approach it. Viktor and Otabek don’t seem too bothered by it, and Yuri doesn’t find himself worried. But Yuuri is shooting nervous glances at the three of them as if hoping for an explanation. Yuri whispers something reassuring to him while annoyance bubbles beneath his skin. Surely if these people are as good as they claim to be, they would think to keep arguing and raised voices to a minimum? They couldn’t possibly know what situations like this usually mean for Yuuri. But still. It’s common decency.

He recognises the voices belonging to Chris and Phichit, but can’t make out what they’re saying enough to understand why the pair of them are screaming at each other.

Then Viktor opens the door.

“Whoops!”

A cloud of white powder engulfs the other Russian, and for a moment, everything freezes.

“Chris!” Phichit’s voice comes from somewhere in the kitchen. “Now that’s _more_ mess I have to clean!”

“Don’t be silly, _mon petit chou_ ,” Chris replies with a disgusting amount of affection in his voice. “Of course I’ll clean it up. Viktor, I demand that you take off your clothes at once! Look at the state they’re in! I’ll make sure I clean every inch of your-”

“ _Chris_!” Phichit whines.

Yuri makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat while Viktor laughs. He catches Otabek smirking out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores the Kazakh in favour of glancing at Yuuri and giving him a small smile. The Japanese man looks so confused, and a little terrified, but he’s doing well. Yuri is proud.

He winds up showing Yuuri around the house before going into the kitchen. Viktor seems to think the place is far too messy for Yuuri to be meeting anyone in there right now, which Yuri thinks is fucking stupid. He’s so hungry, he could eat Makkachin at this point. But he also doesn’t want to get covered in what is apparently flour, so he heeds Viktor’s advice. Otabek thankfully keeps his nose in his own business and doesn’t follow them, opting to stay with Viktor and the others to oversee the cleaning.

The pair of them don’t actually get too far. Only around the ground floor before Yuuri is starting to feel too tired and weak to exert himself any more. Yuri pulls him into what Otabek told him was the family room where he found Phichit’s blanket last week.

It’s strange to sit here on the sofa, just the two of them. Yuuri hasn’t been lucid enough to hold a conversation before now. The Japanese man catches his breath as he stares around the room which much the same confusion as Yuri had when he first saw it. Yuri wants to ask his friend how he’s doing, but finds he doesn’t have the nerve for some reason.

There’s never been much awkwardness between them except during the first few weeks of their enslavement. Thankfully, Yuuri is the one who speaks first.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Yuri deflects. He _is_ okay, but he’d much rather focus on his friend than himself right now.

Yuuri lets out a single, weak laugh. “I’m fine, Yurio,” he says quietly. “Mas- I mean, Vi- I- He says I’m looking much better than I did. I _feel_ a lot better. But I can’t remember much of what happened before today to be honest.”

“Not much has happened,” Yuri admits. “Isaak looked ready to explode when Viktor said he was taking both of us. It was one of the best moments of my life.”

Yuuri chuckles softly again.

“You’ve mostly just been sleeping. People kept bringing food and things for us, but you were too tired to eat any of it.”

“What people?” Yuuri asks, eyes flitting to the door nervously.

“Nobody to worry about, that’s for sure,” Yuri reassures him. “Usually it was Viktor. Sometimes Otabek. Sometimes Chris or Phichit.”

“Right,” Yuuri replies. “And…who are Chris and Phichit?”

“Chris is gross and disgusting,” Yuri snarls immediately, but regrets it when Yuuri flinches. “He’s harmless. Just annoying. He does pole-dancing for a living apparently, and there’s a room on the top floor for him to practice in. And Phichit…he’s just Phichit.”

Yuri finishes with a shrug. How else is he supposed to describe the Thai man whom he’s barely met?

“And who are they…to us?” Yuuri whispers.

Oh.

“I…think they’re the same as you and I,” Yuri answers. “They’ve just been here for longer. Chris…Viktor said that Chris used to belong to Isaak and Matvei too.”

Yuri waits to see his friend’s reaction to this. Yuuri’s face twists in a sad kind of displeasure, mouth opened just a little. It’s an expression Yuri understands well. He didn’t think about it when Viktor first told him, but for a couple of nights after, Yuri couldn’t help imagining Chris in Yuuri’s position. Except he didn’t have anyone there with him. Chris faced those tortures alone, and still somehow came out completely normal. For the most part.

It’s hard to imagine even though it’s right in front of him.

“What about Phichit?”

Yuri furrows his brow. “I don’t know. All I know is that he’s originally from Thailand and that’s where Viktor found him.”

Yuuri lapses into silence, but fidgets and trembles in such a way that anyone not attuned to his habits might never notice.

“I’m scared,” he admits.

“You can’t be,” Yuri says. “You’re supposed to look out for me, remember? Can’t do that if you’re scared. And I’m too short to look out for _you_.”

“Yurio,” Yuuri says with a warm smile. “You look out for me in more ways than you could imagine.”

“Yeah, well…whatever,” is all Yuri can say to that. After a beat of silence, he adds, “I’m scared too you know. But I think we’ll be okay here. I mean, no matter what happens, it can’t be as bad as what it was like with Isaak and Matvei. They didn’t have a mutt.”

Yuuri laughs more animatedly at that which gives Yuri a calming sense of satisfaction.

They sit and talk about nothing in particular for a while, which feels surreal because it’s been a long time since Yuuri has been in any fit state to have a normal conversation. Yuri tells him about the frozen over snow outside and about the fact that Otabek apparently owns a motorcycle. Yuuri recounts Viktor’s mutt encroaching upon his bath and nearly flooding the bathroom. The pair of them speculate on where exactly they are, and while Yuri bitterly says it must be Siberia because it’s mid-March and there is _still_ thick snow on the ground. Yuuri tells him that it’s nice they’re nowhere near a city with loud streets and louder neighbours.

The photos on the walls and on almost every available surface catch Yuuri’s attention eventually, so they inspect them all. They’re sickeningly familial. Photos of Viktor, photos of Viktor with either Chris or Phichit, or sometimes both. Some photos are _just_ Chris or Phichit, or the pair of them together. There is one that looks recent, and it features Phichit with a grand total of five hamsters on him – held in his hands, sitting on his shoulders, and on his head. Another photo is disgustingly cute, with Makkachin’s large nose being the centrepiece and the five hamsters from earlier scattered about him. One pale grey hamster sits on the dog’s nose. Yuri catches sight of a few photos of Chris with a white Persian cat, but the cat doesn’t seem to show up often. He wonders if it’s still around.

Yuri knows he isn’t the only one confused and unsure of how to feel about these photos. But Yuuri seems to be enjoying looking at them, so he doesn’t spoil his friend’s fun.

Eventually, when Yuri’s stomach has developed its own language and is cramping furiously with how hungry he is, someone clears their throat from the doorway. Both their eye flick up to the intruder.

Viktor flashes them a hundred-watt smile.

“The kitchen is clean!” he sings. “Sorry it took so long, Chris is like a five-year-old at times. But now we’re ready to eat! Phichit is just finishing up lunch, and he has a surprise for you two!”

Yuri scowls at the man, while at his side on the sofa, Yuuri bristles anxiously.

“A surprise?” Yuuri asks.

Yuri can feel the hesitancy and the tension rolling off him. Neither of them like the idea of surprises very much these days.

“Well, I can’t _tell_ you otherwise it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” Viktor says. His voice remains upbeat, but Yuri can tell he’s noticed the discomfort in the air. “But it’s nothing to worry about. It’ll be delicious and sweet and ridiculously fattening!”

The image of a fistful of white power hitting Viktor square in the face earlier fills Yuri’s mind. He relaxes a tiny bit.

Viktor leads them back into the kitchen, where Yuuri lags behind on purpose. With silent encouragement from Yuri, the Japanese man is coaxed into the tiled room. Chris and Otabek are seated at the breakfast bar with Makkachin on the floor between them. The mutt jumps up excitedly when the three of them enter, and Yuuri pets the fluffy head, refusing to look up. It’s way too crowded in here for him, Yuri thinks.

Then Phichit steps forward. The Thai man has dark skin, darker even than Otabek’s, and wide shining brown eyes. A happy but muted smile is on his face as he holds something large on a plate up to Yuuri’s face. Suddenly all that flour makes sense.

The cake sitting on the plate is way too big, and smells like vanilla sponge. There’s a thick spread of cream and jam sandwiched between the two layers, and a generous amount of icing sugar is sprinkled across the top. Phichit also appears to have painstakingly sliced strawberries to cover the cake, and there’s a ridiculous smiley face on top of those painted with whipped cream.

How frustratingly sweet.

“Yuuri!” Phichit calls from behind the cake. “I baked this cake to celebrate you feeling better! I would have baked it on your first day, but you were sick and I didn’t want it to go to waste, so I was making soup every day instead, but Yurio said you weren’t awake enough to eat it, and I-”

“All right, _mon petit chou_ ,” Chris pipes up. “I’m sure Yuuri understands why he’s not been able to sample your phenomenal baking before now.”

Phichit lowers the cake, blushing a little. “Right. Sorry.” He laughs quietly as he puts the cake down on the countertop. He’s wearing a messy white apron over his dark, comfortable clothes, which he dusts down before beaming up at Yuuri. “Hi. I’m Phichit Chulanont. It’s nice to meet you, Yuuri. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

The Thai man’s smile must be infectious, because everyone seems to have smiles on their lips except Yuri. Even Otabek has the faintest trace of a grin on his otherwise emotionless face, and Yuuri seems to allow his lips to quirk up politely. Yuri knows his friend though. Despite his uncertainty about the situation, Yuuri’s smile is genuine.

“And I’m Chris,” the Swiss man calls from his seat. “We met last week.”

It sounds kind of like a question. To Yuri’s surprise, Yuuri’s smile relaxes somewhat as he nods at the blond man.

“Right,” he says softly. “I…think I remember you.”

“Of course you do! I’m completely unforgettable, after all!”

Yuri gags in the back of his throat while Viktor and Phichit laugh enthusiastically.

The dining room is attached to the kitchen, and under Phichit’s instructions, they all file through and sit at the huge table where the Thai man starts to dish up whatever it is he’s cooked. It looks like off-colour rice with various things through it – Yuri recognises prawns and tiny pieces of chicken, as well as a colourful array of vegetables. There’s a small cart sitting by the table too, and Phichit lifts plates off it to place down as well. It all looks startlingly fresh. The lime wedges, the slices of tomato, the cucumber. Somewhere in the background, Phichit is talking about fried eggs, but Yuri isn’t listening. He only sees food.

“Sorry, I don’t know Japanese food,” Phichit says, smiling apologetically at Yuuri across the table. “But I figured rice would definitely be familiar to you, so I made _khao pad_. Um, it’s Thai fried rice.”

“I-It looks good,” Yuuri mumbles politely. “Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

If anyone else besides Yuri notices the tremor in the Japanese man’s voice, they don’t mention it.

The six of them eat in relative comfort. Yuri scoffs down his food like a starving animal, and decides that Phichit is his new favourite person if he can make food this good. He’s making a mess of his face, but he doesn’t care, and no one seems to mind. Yuuri, on the other hand, picks at his meal. Only tiny bites make it past his lips, and the rest of the food is pushed idly around the plate. Is it because he’s still full from breakfast? Yuri eyes him up suspiciously. It’s hard to tell if there’s something else going on.

Viktor, Chris, and Phichit make pleasant, even lively conversation. The three of them laugh and make jokes, and talk about what they’ve been doing this past week. Chris describes a new show he’s creating in graphic detail and with far too much demonstration for a meal time. Viktor cheers eagerly while Yuri is sure he catches Phichit snapping a photo of Chris on a phone. But that can’t be right. He’s never known a slave to be allowed something like a phone.

The Thai man tells them rather boring stories of the things his hamsters got up to last night – apparently he does indeed have five of them housed in his bedroom. It leads in to Chris talking about his own cat, who does still exist, but apparently she doesn’t like Makkachin so she spends a lot of time hiding in Chris’ room.

Otabek sits in complete silence, Yuri notes. He’ll grin occasionally, but will never make a sound or join in the conversation except to make vague noises when a question or a comment is directed at him. Yuri isn’t sure what to make of it. Does he not like socialising? He wonders if there’s tension about the man because of whatever it is he’s done that made Isaak think Viktor would have fired him.

Nobody makes a comment about how little Yuuri eats, but Phichit still offers him a slice of that desirable-looking cake when everyone else has finished their rice.

“Sometimes I have a taste for sweet things over savoury,” the Thai man explains with a kind smile as he cuts Yuri a piece that looks way too small for how hungry he still is.

Yuuri’s eyes dart to Yuri at first, then to Viktor. He’s looking for a sign, Yuri thinks. Some kind of indication of what his answer should be.

“I-” Yuuri pauses to gulp. “It looks amazing, Phichit, b-but I’m not very h-hungry. I’m s-sorry, is that okay?”

Again, his brown eyes flit to Viktor.

“That’s fine, Yuuri,” Phichit laughs. “I’ll cover it in case you want some later, okay?”

Viktor’s face holds nothing but reassurance for Yuuri as Phichit finally places a piece of cake on Yuri’s plate. He wastes no time in scarfing it down and boldly declaring that he wants another, bigger piece. His passion for junk food and sweet things has still not abated, it seems. Under the table, Makkachin’s drool-soaked chin rests on his thigh. Yuri allows the mutt to lick his fingers clean.

They all stay sitting at the table for a good while longer. The conversation is so painstakingly normal that Yuri finds himself joining in. He doesn’t tell them much. He just relays what it was like when he was training for competitions, and how gruelling the exercise was and how tiring his schedule became. It feels nice to complain, even if he _does_ miss his training.

Yuuri doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t attempt to contribute to anything anyone says, and nobody tries to force him. But he still reacts. He chuckles shyly at some of the things said, and nods in agreement at others. Mostly, he sits there in silence, his eyes fixed firmly on the table and only occasionally rising to briefly look at someone. It may not seem like much, but it’s a surprising amount of progress.

Yuri doesn’t want to let himself believe that things are going to get better. If he does, it’ll hurt all the more when things take dark turn. But the sheer normalcy and warmth that comes with the six of them sitting eating lunch and talking while Makkachin ambles about begging for food…

Well, it’s hard to deny it.

For just a moment, Yuri lets go of all his worries and allows himself to experience the moment. It’s safe. It’s homely. It’s hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yurio can't help but feel better about the situation if YUURI is showing progress :P Wonder how long this will last. Maybe it WILL be fine :D
> 
> Next chapter, we're getting back into Yuuri's head and we'll be heavy on the heavy stuff once more because I live for angst. Perhaps some light stuff too.


	12. The Adjustment Period

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares plague Yuuri now that Yurio has moved into his own room, but Viktor has a list of solutions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, we're back in Yuuri's unstable head. This ought to be good.
> 
> Content warnings: Somewhat graphic but still not that graphic rape/non-con (dream), anxiety, panic attack, a little blood, mention of Viktor Nikiforov's cooking abilities. 
> 
> PSA: If you don't want to read the rape/non-con part, skip to the end of the italics!

**Yuuri**

_He asks them to wait._

_They don’t wait._

_They want this to hurt more than just physically. And hurt physically, it does. The only thing that makes it all the tiniest bit smoother is the layer of Yuuri’s saliva they forced him to coat Isaak’s cock in._

_It’s a brutal pace._

_The sound – the obscenity of skin slapping on skin. Wet and thick. Yuuri gagging around Matvei is gruesome. It’s a miracle he doesn’t throw up._

_The smell – a haunting one. Matvei pressed right up against his nose, and Isaak breathing down the back of his neck. Isaak smells like cigarettes. Matvei, like masculine shower gel._

_And the pain. The sharp, tearing agony. With each thrust, it’s like a knife is being jammed into him. There was no prep. Only a few seconds for Yuuri to make Isaak’s cock as slick as possible with a dry mouth. It wasn’t long enough. It hurts, it hurts so much that tears are streaming down Yuuri’s face and muffled sobs leave his throat._

_Yuuri’s had sex before._

_This isn’t sex._

_He would fight. He would beg them to stop. He would bite down on Matvei and kick Isaak, but he can’t. Because Yurio is right there._

_Yuuri can’t see him any more which is a saving grace. But the image of the teenager’s wide green eyes, watery with terror and disgust, is burned into his eyelids. Yuuri’s eyes are screwed shut so he doesn’t have to see anything, yet all he can picture of Yurio._

_Yurio, whom he doesn’t even know. Yurio, who is small and so clearly afraid. How can Yuuri let him go through this too? How could Yuuri let something like this happen to him without even trying? He thought he was doing everything right. He thought he was protecting the teenager. But he’s not. Because there the blond sits, just out of sight, being forced to watch as Yuuri is “broken in”._

_Then there is a new sound. Yurio. Telling them to stop, softly at first, then more persistently until the frightened teenager is near hysterical. Isaak only jerks his hips harder and faster to force Yuuri to cry out louder. He tries to hard not to. It’s impossible. And his distress only fuels Yurio’s own._

_All he hears is skin, crying, and ignored pleading. All he feels is pain and a deep kind of humiliation._

_Why are they making Yurio watch this?_

_Why is this happening?_

_What did he do wrong to deserve this?_

_Yurio, please don’t cry. Please calm down. Please just stop talking, stop talking, stop crying, stop looking, close your eyes, Yurio, Yurio-_

* * *

 

Yuuri jerks awake with a name on his tongue and a sharp gasp.

He takes several seconds to calm his breathing and realise that he’s alone. Isaak and Matvei are not here. This phantom pain clenching somewhere in his core is just that – a phantom. It’s not really there. He’s safe. _Yurio_ is safe. Everything is fine.

Everything is _fine_.

But it doesn’t _feel_ fine.

His heart pounds furiously against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. Sweat pools in the sheets beneath him, sheets that are bunched up from all the tossing and turning he’s sure he’s done. The feeling that something is seriously wrong won’t leave him. It’s settled in his stomach and he feels sick with unbidden terror. Tremors wrack his entire body. His breathing is fast becoming erratic again. He can feel the panic attack coming.

_No, no, no. Keep it together, Yuuri._

He swallows down air as he kicks the covers back and gets to his feet. He has to check on Yurio. It’s a compulsion that will never leave him until he lays his eyes upon his friend.

He’s only wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and it’s freezing in the dark hallway when the air hits his damp skin. Even the carpet feels especially rough under his bare feet. But Yuuri walks with purpose. Ignores the oppressive silence and the deafening sound of his footsteps. Nothing could tear his attention away.

He has no idea what time it is, or even if Yurio might be awake, but he pushes open the bedroom door without hesitating. What he sees is exactly what he expected. Yurio, splayed out comfortably in his own bed, with the blue light from the quiet television illuminating him. The younger man’s breathing is deep and even. There’s not a crease on his face. He is peaceful. Safe.

Only a little of the tension coiled in Yuuri’s gut abates. He’s half tempted to gently awaken the Russian, or at least crawl up into his bed beside him. He knows that would help. But it’s childish. It’s stupid. He has to learn to sleep on his own. He can’t rely on Yurio for the rest of his life.

And yet it’s nearly impossible to tear himself away. Yurio stayed with him while he was delirious with infection, and then for a further two nights after that. Then Yuuri told him to go to his own room. He encouraged Yurio take advantage of the fact that he _has_ his own room, and a bed, and all the other amenities in there. Yurio argued a little, but relented when Yuuri promised to wake him if he found himself unable to cope.

That was five days ago. This night marks the end of their second week here and the start of their third. Yuuri only woke Yurio once. The other times, he forced himself back to bed only to not sleep a wink. Yuuri has found that when he gets this anxious, he can’t settle. He’s too afraid to go back to sleep. Too afraid of what he will relive. Not once, during the months he was a slave to Isaak and Matvei, did Yuuri have nightmares about what had happened, nor what _could_ happen. It seems that now he’s free of them physically, they still have a hold on him. Yuuri hasn’t slept properly in a week and he can feel it now, weighing heavily like a black cloak laden with water.

He can’t wake Yurio. He simply can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to disturb his tranquil sleep. But he does kind of envy the small Russian: how is it that he can sleep so soundly? Considering the things he’s seen, Yuuri knows it must be hard for him too. So how does he do it?

Yuuri stands there, worrying his lip with his teeth, for close to a full minute before he backs out of the room and closes the door gently. Maybe he’ll go downstairs and find something to eat and drink. That might settle him a little. He doesn’t do a whole lot of eating or drinking in front of the others. Surrounded by so many people, he finds himself too nervous to eat. Not to mention he’s not been too hungry lately. He knows he _should_ be hungry and eating. But the feeling just…isn’t there.

The others must have noticed, Yuuri thinks as he creeps steadily to the stairs. He’s caught their concerned looks more than once. Expressions that reinforce Viktor’s promise that he is safe here and no one is going to hurt him. If he’s being honest, he probably still doesn’t believe the man. If he believed him, he might be eating better. But he can’t. He’s tried. For some reason, it won’t find a place in his head.

Yuuri has every reason to believe Viktor is telling the truth, too. But he doesn’t.

Yurio does nothing but complain. And honestly, that’s the _biggest_ indicator that things are all right. He complains about Viktor, Otabek, Chris, and even Makkachin (though not Chris’ white Persian cat who keeps mostly to herself). The Russian can’t seem to bring himself to do the same where Phichit is concerned. Yuuri can see why.

Phichit is happy. That’s the simplest way Yuuri can put it. The Thai man, a couple of years younger than Yuuri, always has a smile on his face. He laughs all the time, he fawns over his hamsters like a doting grandmother, and he’s constantly snapping pictures with his phone. The phone is something that still throws Yuuri and Yurio both. Viktor has offered to give them _both_ phones of their own, but they refused. It’s too much to get their heads around. It’s even too much for Yuuri to comprehend how Phichit can be so happy. Granted, he doesn’t know the young man’s story…but Yuuri doesn’t know if he’ll ever be at the same level as the smiling Thai. Phichit is so warm and open. He’s garnered more than enough small laughs and titbits of conversation from Yuuri already.

Chris, on the other hand. Yuuri doesn’t mind him so much now. The Swiss man is overly confident, extremely touchy-feely, and far more openly sexual than Yuuri would think someone with his history could be. These aspects of Chris scared him to begin with. But Chris is very obviously careful around him. He seems to reel himself in a little; he’s softer, more respectful. After rubbing Yuuri gently on the shoulder once and receiving a flinch in response, Chris doesn’t touch him any more.  Yuuri appreciates it. With everyone else, though, Chris doesn’t hold back. His friendship with Viktor is strong and clearly filled with hilarity. Chris likes to tease. Not just Viktor, who takes it on the chin or even takes part, but everyone else too. Otabek seems to find it bothersome, Phichit gets worked up but ultimately laughs. Even Yurio is subject to Chris at times. And the small Russian rages, hisses, spits like a cat. Yuuri can tell it doesn’t _really_ bother him. If it did, he wouldn’t be so animated about it.

Otabek – Yurio’s mock Master – is quiet. He doesn’t say much unless he’s forced into the conversation. He doesn’t emote either. Yuuri has caught him smiling on the odd occasion, but he still has no idea what to think of the man. Yurio complains at length about him. The word “asshole” has been thrown around a lot. But once again, Yuuri knows that Yurio isn’t truly upset by the man.

It’s enviable how easily Yurio seems to have slotted into this new life.

Then there’s Viktor. The man who claims to be his Master, but not really because apparently it’s all some ruse so that he can rescue slaves. But only some slaves. Not all of them.

Viktor Nikiforov is kind and gentle, and also silly at times and full of laughter. He’s never shouted at Yuuri, never raised a hand, never threatened him. In fact, since the peak of his infection, Viktor hasn’t really even _touched_ Yuuri. And since Yuuri’s panic attack last week, the man has never commanded him. Even Yurio can only find superficial things to complain about.

But Yuuri can’t help feeling that it’s all some kind of act. _Surely_ the man is just trying to play a game with him. At the very least, he must be giving Yuuri time to become accustomed to his new surroundings before he uses him like slaves are supposed to be used. This fear is what stops Yuuri from relaxing around him, he thinks. Sure, he’ll laugh when the man is being ridiculous like with the bed sheet incident. There’s a kind of hollowness about it though. He doesn’t know when this kind of light-heartedness is going to end. What he _does_ know is that he won’t be able to keep laughing with Viktor or these other new people when Viktor finally stakes his claim.

He tried to convince himself before that it wouldn’t be so bad. Viktor would probably be far gentler than Isaak. It wouldn’t matter either way, because Viktor is _not_ Isaak, and as long as it’s not Isaak, it doesn’t matter. He needs to repay Viktor for his kindness anyway. The doctor wouldn’t have been free. His antibiotics and his painkillers, his IV lines and fluids, not to mention the wound cleaning kits – none of that was free. None of it was obligation. Viktor did it all because he wanted to, and Yuuri would _have_ to pay him back eventually. Which he’s told himself is fine.

Except it’s not fine at all. Yuuri is terrified of facing anything like what he went through with Isaak and Matvei again. It doesn’t matter if it’s gentle. It doesn’t even matter if he _likes_ it physically. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want anyone to touch him ever again. When images of the horrors he’s faced aren’t keeping him awake at night, it’s imagining what’s going to happen when Viktor decides he’s had enough time to acclimate that does.

The freezing tiles on the kitchen floor make goosebumps rise up on his legs. There are little dim lights under the upper cabinets which he turns on so that he’s not feeling around blindly.

He’s still not really that hungry, so he pulls a glass down from an upper cabinet and fills it halfway with tap water. It’s not the best water – it’s cloudy and tastes a little chalky. Yuuri tosses the rest of it down the sink and instead fills it with milk. The white liquid is soothing on his throat, and cold enough to make his head ache for a second. Milk is better than nothing, he reasons.

He washes the glass and is drying it so he can put it away and pretend he was never here.

“Yuuri?”

His jump is violent. The glass tumbles from his hand and to the floor. Yuuri flinches again when it shatters. He hears Viktor take a couple of steps into the kitchen, and immediately, a high tone fills his ears.

“S-Sorry,” Yuuri forces out. “Y-You startled me. Not- Not that it’s you f-fault. I-I-” He drops to his knees with a painful crack against the tiles. “I’ll c-clean it up.”

Oh God. Viktor is going to be so angry. There’s only so long he can keep pretending, and Yuuri’s just broken what is probably an expensive glass. His lingering anxiety from earlier skyrockets. Heartbeat, breathing, sweating, it all goes up. Yuuri’s hands quake aggressively as he reaches out blindly for any shards.

“Yuuri, wait-”

“Ah!”

Yuuri jerks his hand back instinctually as sharp pain lances across the soft skin under his thumb. He can see blood collecting already. Oh God. Will Viktor be angry at that too? Tears collect in his eyes as he goes to try to pick up the pieces again.

“Are you-?”

A hand touches his shoulder. Yuuri can’t help it when his body wrenches itself away from the offender, barely managing to turn so that it’s his back and head that slam into the cabinet and not his face. His knees come up to his chest, injured hand cradled protectively behind his legs, and there is Viktor kneeling in front of him with concern etched deep into his face.

It’s fake. It’s so fake, why would he be concerned when Yuuri has just shattered one of his possessions? He doesn’t know if he can take much more of this game.

God, he can’t stop shaking.

“I-I’m sorry, M-Master,” Yuuri manages. “I d-didn’t mean to m-move. I- You sh-should punish me f-for my-”

“Yuuri, stop it,” Viktor says firmly. “I scared you, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry. Please don’t get yourself worked up.”

“I’m s-sorry, I-”

“It’s okay, Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice is gentle again, and his eyes are so blue and warm. “Just take a few deep breaths, all right? Calm yourself down. No one is getting punished. It was an accident.”

Yuuri does as he says, partly because how can he disobey his Master, but mostly because he knows under all of his panic that Viktor _is_ only trying to help. He has to close his eyes – Viktor’s face isn’t helping. But when he does, he breathes deeply and tries to do it slowly. He’s kind of proud of himself when he gets it quite quickly, even though his breaths remain shaky.

He wishes he could stop this. He has no reason to believe Viktor will hurt him. It’s so logical to assume Viktor is safe. But his head has other ideas, almost like it won’t listen to him.

“That’s right,” Viktor whispers. “Well done, Yuuri.”

There’s no reasonable explanation for it, but Viktor’s praise seems to only alleviate his anxiety further. Nothing like that has ever happened before. He doesn’t know if anyone ever _has_ given him praise for something like getting his panic under control, not even Yurio who is still so supportive in his own way.

He takes a few more seconds to prepare himself for facing whatever is going to happen next, before opening his eyes and staring up at Viktor. No, the man definitely looks worried, with faint lines between his eyebrows from the way they are creased upwards.

“I-I’m okay now,” he tells him.

A relieved smile breaks out over Viktor’s face. It’s a little half-hearted: the concern is still etched deep.

“I’m glad,” Viktor says. “Did you cut yourself?”

The question makes Yuuri tighten his grip on the injured hand even more.

“Would it be all right if I had a look at it?”

Yuuri hesitates. He’s asking. _Asking_. But Yuuri knows there’s a chance it’s an order disguised to test him. So, trembling, he stretches his arm out so that Viktor can see his hand. Blood dribbles leisurely from the cut and down his wrist before dropping off to the floor. Viktor grimaces at it as he takes the hand gently to steady it.

“Oh, Yuuri,” the man sighs. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” It’s the truth. He can’t really feel it.

“Let’s get it cleaned up, all right?”

Viktor gets to his feet and tugs gently on Yuuri’s wrist. Yuuri stands as well, wary of moving in case he steps on any glass. Under Viktor’s guidance, he avoids the shards and sits down at the breakfast bar while the Russian man rifles through one of the cabinets. He returns with a first aid kit.

Neither of them say anything while Viktor pulls out the things he thinks he’ll need, including a little bowl which he fills with warm water. As he’s squirting the cut with a small tube of sterile water, he clears his throat.

“Is everything okay, Yuuri?” he asks. “I just mean, it’s four o’clock in the morning. What are you doing up?”

That last question puts a spike of fear in his heart, but he forces himself to quash it down. Whether he’s really allowed to be up and wandering at this time or not doesn’t matter. He’s been asked a question.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles. “I thought a drink might help.”

“Didn’t you go and see Yurio?”

“I…I did,” Yuuri admits with a nod. “He was asleep. I didn’t want to wake him.”

He can’t meet Viktor’s eyes, but he can feel the hard stare.

“Yuuri, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you woke him up.”

“I-I know,” Yuuri responds quickly. “But it’s not fair on him. I can’t keep- I can’t keep…”

He can’t even say it aloud to Viktor. It feels shameful, somehow. Why would the man even care about his worries?

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “What’s keeping you awake at night?”

Yuuri hesitates for all of half a second.

“N-Nightmares,” he bites out. “I’m…I’m afraid to go back to sleep. I-I keep seeing them, I keep reliving-”

He startles them both when a sharp sob bursts out and tears collect in his eyes. But it can’t be helped. Admitting something aloud always makes it seem that much more real than keeping it to yourself. With his free hand, he tries to wipe away any moisture before it can spill over, but he ends up just pressing it to his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at anything. All he ever seems to do is cry. He’s tired of it. Why can’t he be stronger? Why can’t he be more like Yurio? Why is he so weak and pathetic and-

Viktor is squeezing his wrist lightly, and it grounds him before he even has the chance to take off.

“Yuuri, I can’t even imagine…” The man trails off. “I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do. What would you like me to do? You name it, and I’ll do it. I don’t want you to be afraid of anything here.”

Yuuri shakes his head. There is nothing Viktor can do that will stop these nightmares, unless he can somehow go back in time and stop it all from happening in the first place. Or if he could somehow send Yuuri home. Back to Japan.

Viktor doesn’t say anything else while he cleans the cut on Yuuri’s hand. It’s not very big or very deep, but the soft skin under his thumb is delicate and vascular, so it’s bleeding a fair bit. After it’s cleaned, the Russian presses a pad of sterile gauze over it and asks Yuuri to press on it firmly. Then he sets about cleaning up the glass on the floor. Yuuri watches him from the corner of his eye.

As Viktor is tipping the glass into the trash, a clicking sound on the tiles fills the room. Yuuri turns his head to see Makkachin ambling sleepily into the kitchen. He hears Viktor mutter something like “ _There you are_ ”. The mutt trots right up to Yuuri and lays his large head in his lap, eyes wide and pleading. Despite himself, Yuuri smiles and pets his fluffy head. With each stroke, a little fear melts out of his body.

“I have it!” Viktor yelps suddenly. He is staring at Yuuri and the dog, eyes alight and mouth open in a smile. “You can sleep with Makkachin!”

“W-What?”

“It makes perfect sense!” Viktor insists. “You like dogs, you clearly feel more at ease with Makkachin around, and Makkachin _adores_ you. Not to mention he never sleeps in his own bed anyway. He’s always crawling into mine when he thinks I’m asleep.”

“But- But Makkachin’s _your_ -”

“Yuuri, I insist!” The Russian scratches his dog on the back before peeling the gauze back from Yuuri’s hand to inspect the cut. “It’s no trouble to me at all. I think Makkachin would like it. And it might help you, don’t you think?”

“I…maybe…” Yuuri admits. He loves the dog, and there is no denying the animal calms him down when he feels like he might just break.

“That settles it!” Viktor’s smile is huge and heart-shaped. “Makkachin, you’re moving in with Yuuri! Be careful with the sheets, though, or they’ll eat you up! Yes, they will.””

The dog has no idea what his master is saying, but his whole body wiggles in excitement as his tail wags, long tongue flopping out of his jaws. It brings an endearing little grin to Yuuri’s face. Especially when Viktor lapses into Russia gibberish and the dog lowers his chest to the floor playfully.

Viktor covers the small cut on Yuuri’s hand with a sturdy dressing and puts the first aid kit away.

“Are you hungry, Yuuri?” Viktor asks. “You’ve not been eating a lot.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. He is, but he isn’t.

“How about I make hot chocolate and we have snacks?” the Russian suggests, saving Yuuri the trouble of struggling to answer. “I’d cook, but I’m afraid the only thing I can cook is a microwave meal, and I don’t know if they go too well with hot chocolate. I was going to make some for myself anyway. I couldn’t quite sleep either. You can tell me how good I am at choosing store-bought cookies too!”

Viktor’s face is hopeful and open. His gentle smile slowly encourages Yuuri to try to smile in response. And finally, the Japanese man nods. After all, hot chocolate and junk food couldn’t hurt. Maybe it’s what he’s subconsciously been craving this whole time. He’s always been a bit of a stress eater.

“Hot chocolate would be nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless Viktor's heart, he's trying. And Yuuri is getting there just a little. Makkachin to the rescue once again!
> 
> Why doesn't Yuuri have his glasses yet? Why hasn't Viktor let him contact his family yet? Where's the smut at? Who's gonna fall for who first?
> 
> Some of these questions will be resolved in the next chapter! Only some of them :3
> 
> I created a Tumblr for those of you who were asking! It's kind of empty right now because I barely use it and also, I'm not following that many people. Check it out anyway! https://frilly-axolotl.tumblr.com/


	13. Forever Talking At You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody seems to have something to say about Yuuri's eating habits, but maybe it's not all bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise profusely for the long wait between chapters >.< I've deleted my update note, but for those of you who read it, you'll understand. There was an incident on Monday morning in which the police were called, my roommate (bless his soul) went above and beyond what I could have expected of a complete stranger, and now I think things are going to be okay. I read every single one of your comments, guys, and although I didn't respond to them all, I hope you know how much I appreciate the love and support <3
> 
> The wait between updates may still be long, but I really hope I can get chapters out much quicker now that things are settling down a little!
> 
> Content warnings: Yuuri's anxiety, slightly self-deprecating thoughts, some insensitive words that are spoken with regards to depressive emotions, and WHOOPS some feels again.

**Yuuri**

Viktor piles up a plate high with junk food. It’s mostly tiny cupcakes Phichit made that evening, and _all_ of it is laden with sugar. Yuuri doesn’t think this kind of food is the best thing to be eating when he can’t sleep, but he doesn’t question Viktor.

The Russian insists on moving through to the family room where Yuuri sits awkwardly at the edge of the sofa while Viktor turns the TV on and lets some late night Russian game show play. Yuuri sips slowly at his hot chocolate until it’s gone cold and Viktor is already on his fourth cupcake. He doesn’t push Yuuri to eat. So timidly, as four o’clock becomes five o’clock, Yuuri starts to nibble at one of the chocolate ones. Makkachin drools on Yuuri’s lap, and Viktor lightly scolds his dog who doesn’t listen to a word of it.

Yuuri starts to relax just a tiny bit.

In fact, he relaxes enough to have a casual conversation with Viktor. He stammers and is quiet, but he manages. It comes about when Viktor sees him staring adamantly at the television. Viktor asks him if he understands Russian at all. Yuuri honestly tells the man that he understands a little, but he doesn’t want to go into the details. Most of the Russian he knows isn’t polite. He has Isaak and Matvei to thank for that.

At some point, Yuuri must fall asleep because he seems to blink and suddenly he’s lying on the couch, and there is daylight streaming through the big window. Makkachin is snuggled somewhere near his lower half and there’s a blanket draped over both of them. He can’t remember pulling a blanket over himself, but he doesn’t think very much of it. How can he worry when he feels so comfortable? The remainder of sleep still clings to his head and makes his every muscle feel loose and his mind feel warm.

It's a peaceful moment. Yuuri doesn’t want to get up. He wonders if anybody would mind if he lies here for the rest of the day.

He’s perfectly content to roll over and go back to sleep, until he hears the quiet opening of a door and Makkachin’s tail begins to thump gently against the sofa. Every muscle in Yuuri’s body tenses. Just in case.

“Makkachin,” an accented voice calls softly.

Chris.

The dog, however, doesn’t move. Chris calls the animal’s name again, sounding a little more excited but no less quiet. Again, Makkachin stays curled against Yuuri’s legs.

“Don’t you want to go outside?” Chris asks.

The dog’s tail continues to thump against the couch, but this time it’s accompanied by a high whine. Yuuri feels the poodle’s chin shift so it’s laying over his calf. Something in Yuuri’s chest tightens because _God,_ the dog doesn’t want to leave him for some reason.

He sighs deeply and begins to stir, drawing a sound of surprise from Chris.

“Yuuri, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Chris says. His voice is still so delicate.

“I-I was already awake,” Yuuri mumbles as he sits up and rubs sand from his eyes. When he turns to glance at Chris, the Swiss man is staring at him. Yuuri feels his cheeks go warm as he drops his gaze for a second. “Good m-morning,” he offers.

He peeks back up at the blond for all of half a second in which Chris’ face looks shocked – like he’s surprised Yuuri has spoken – before he breaks into a friendly smile.

“I think you mean ‘good afternoon’,” he corrects. “It’s nearly two o’clock.”

“It…It is?” Yuuri asks. Dread like sickness churns in his stomach. He’s not allowed to sleep past nine. “I-I’m sorry, I-”

“What are you apologising for?” Chris asks. Yuuri notices the tiniest shift, and suddenly the man is forcing that smile. “You must have been very tired to sleep for so long. Your little friend only got up an hour ago too. It’s no wonder. He was probably up late last night with all that sugar he was eating. He really has a sweet tooth, doesn’t he?”

Yuuri stares at Chris as he tries to sort through his jumbled thoughts in his head. He’s not allowed to sleep past nine…no, that isn’t right. He _wasn’t_ allowed to sleep past nine with Isaak and Matvei. Things are different here. Chris is making small talk because Yuuri has done nothing wrong. There’s no reason for him to be nervous. It’s okay. Chris is being friendly. Chris has never done anything to hurt him.

“U-Um,” Yuuri begins. No, there’s no reason to be nervous. If only it were so easy to make the feeling go away. “Yeah, h-he does. It…It’s a wonder he d-doesn’t have cavities.”

His heart is pounding in his ears, but _God_ , he’s so proud of himself. Isn’t that a completely normal thing to say to someone?

Chris positively beams. “Maybe he can see a dentist while you’re getting your glasses next week.”

Oh, yeah. Yuuri forgot about that. He’s spent so long _without_ his glasses, he’s kind of adapted to the blurry shapes around him. Not that he’s not grateful, or excited. In fact, he’s really looking forward to being able to see clearly again. He’ll be able to read, he’ll be able to see whatever faces Yurio is pulling in the distance. Maybe he’ll feel a little like himself again with something sitting on the bridge of his nose.

His stomach grumbles suddenly, which makes Chris laugh.

“Phichit put some leftovers in the fridge for you,” the man says.

“M-Maybe I should shower first,” Yuuri says. He’s definitely hungry, but something sounds so unappealing about food right now, he doesn’t want Chris joining him and watching him pick. Not to mention he hasn’t showered in three days.

Fear crawls up his spine like a large spider and settles at the base of his neck when Chris’ face falls a little. His flinch is instinctual – he recognises that Chris only looks concerned and not angry. But he can’t help it. The Swiss man, to his credit, tries to smile again. Yuuri can see how hollow it is.

“Yuuri,” he says softly. “We’ve all noticed you don’t have much of an appetite.”

His mouth is dry, but Yuuri tries to swallow anyway. There’s no reason to panic.

“W…We?” he repeats.

“Viktor, Phichit, and I,” Chris clarifies. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble or anything. It’s just…we’re concerned about you.”

Something in Yuuri must believe Chris, because his heart seems to clench at that.

“I…I just don’t feel much like eating,” he admits nervously. “I don’t…I don’t really want to…do anything.”

“After what you’ve been through, I’m not surprised,” Chris says, shifting so that he’s facing Yuuri more fully. “But you have to try. If you don’t eat, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“I know,” Yuuri says. There’s a lump in his throat.

“Maybe you could keep snacks with you?” Chris suggests. “You bite your lip a lot. Instead of biting your lip, you can eat!”

The Swiss man looks so proud of himself. Yuuri wonders when, during his months with Isaak and Matvei, he stopped being a comfort eater and started starving himself instead.

“C-Chris,” Yuuri says. He can’t lie. He doesn’t even want to. If anything, he finds himself aching for someone to understand. “There must be something wrong with me. I’ve always l-loved food. But now…I-I just don’t want to eat. I’ve tried. But I can’t.”

“You’re not eating?”

Yuuri’s blood seems to freeze in his veins as Yurio’s voice hits him, harsh and shocked and upset. Oh no. He never wanted Yurio to find out. The younger man shouldn’t be worrying about him. Not now. Not here, where it’s supposed to be safe.

He can’t – doesn’t want to look – but he has to. Nervous to the point of sweating, he glances beyond Chris to see Yurio standing in the doorway. The small blond has a can of Pringles clenched in one hand, and a startlingly angry expression on his face. Yuuri almost flinches. Yurio’s face doesn’t soften.

Pushing past Chris, the blond storms right up to him.

“What the fuck?!” he snaps, dropping to his knees in front of Yuuri when Yuuri looks away. “Are you stupid or something?”

Quietly, Chris excuses himself and takes Makkachin with him. Yuuri hears the click of the door and it’s like a nail in his coffin. No way Yurio is going to let him get away with this.

“Yurio…” Yuuri begins.

“Don’t ‘Yurio’ me, you selfish shithead!” Yurio snarls, and it’s so shocking that Yuuri looks up at him, eyes wide. “Why aren’t you eating? Is it because you’ve given up?”

Yuuri tries to shake his head and tell him no, but the younger man doesn’t let him.

“After everything we’ve been through, you think it’s okay to just starve yourself to death? What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Yuuri whispers.

“Then what is it? Are you depressed? Go ask Nikiforov for some fucking pills and get over it!”

“Yurio,” Yuuri says with a hollow laugh. “That’s not how that works. I can’t just take a pill and have everything be all right again.”

“Well, you have to do _something_!” Yurio growls. “You can’t eat nothing. I’m not going to let you do this to yourself. Here, eat one of these!”

Yurio thrusts the can of Pringles under his nose.

“Yurio-”

“Would you just fucking take one?” the blond hisses, and Yuuri takes one and eats it to appease him. “Is this about what _they_ did to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, figure it out! Because until you start eating properly again, I won’t eat either.”

The blond is being ridiculous. He’s overreacting. Yuuri knows it’s because he cares, but the harsh tone and the snarled words cut him all the same.

“Yurio, you can’t-”

“Says who? Who’s going to fucking stop me? Not Isaak. Not Matvei. They’re history. I can do whatever I want, and I can refuse to do whatever I _don’t_ want to do. I don’t get it,” Yurio snaps, jumping to his feet again. Yuuri’s never seen him this frantic. “Why are you being so selfish? Phichit spends hours looking up and trying recipes because he’s trying to make food he thinks _you’d_ like the most, and you’re not even eating it properly?”

“I-”

“No, you shut up and let me finish!” Yurio shouts, and Yuuri is surprised to see tears shining in his eyes. “Nikiforov paid for a private doctor to come out here every single day for a week so that you wouldn’t die, he paid for you to be healthy again. And how are you thanking him for it? By letting yourself waste away. You’re making people worry about you instead of just fucking asking for help like a normal person!”

Yurio growls and turns away. Yuuri can see him wiping furiously at his eyes with his sleeve. He doesn’t know what to say.

“And what about me, huh?” Yurio’s voice is quiet but demanding. “I’ve been taking care of your health since day one. You _know_ what I’ve seen and what I’ve had to do. And instead of making it worth my while by trying to move on _now_ , you’re turning everything I did into a waste of time.”

Yuuri swallows. He can’t look up. Because Yurio is so painfully right. At just sixteen years old, Yurio saw and cleaned up the aftermath of things no sixteen-year-old should ever have to see. And Yuuri has already considered the cost of his medical care at Viktor’s expense. He _is_ being selfish. And he’s so weak that he can’t stop himself.

“Yurio…” he whispers. “I’m sorry-”

“Yeah? You should be!” Yurio snarls, glaring over his shoulder. “Why don’t you prove it? Get over it and go eat a full fucking meal before you talk to me again!”

With that, Yurio storms from the room. Yuuri doesn’t see what’s outside of the room, but he hears Yurio hiss a curse in Russian that he recognises, and he concludes that at least one person in the house must have heard their entire argument. One side of him – the side that was raised in Japan and taught to be polite – wants to rush out and apologise for the disturbance. The other side prevails, and he sits there on the couch feeling empty and cold and pained.

He wishes he could explain. Wishes he could put it into words that Yurio could understand. Because Yurio is right, so right, but at the same time he doesn’t understand. They are two very different people, they deal with difficulties differently. Yurio gets angry. Yurio uses aggression to fight things off. And Yuuri…

Well, apparently Yuuri stops eating.

It’s so hard to say why. How can he possibly explain how he’s feeling? How can he describe that ever-present terror that’s lurking just below the surface, stopping him from relaxing and feeling hungry? Feeling like doing anything at all. He can’t. It’s stupid. Yuuri is logical – he knows now that he’s safe here. After last night, he _knows_. After a completely normal bout of small talk with Chris, he knows. But knowing doesn’t stop the fear from coursing through his veins and seeping into his bones. What he’s afraid of, he doesn’t exactly know. He understands that Isaak and Matvei can’t get him here. He understands that no one here has any desire to hurt him. Really, he should be thriving.

But he isn’t. And Yurio’s words, instead of fuelling some kind of fire like he knows would have happened if their roles were reversed, only make him feel worse. All at once, a profound sense of uselessness overcomes him. He feels the outburst coming. Building like a tsunami in the distance. Any minute now. Any minute. He’ll lose it all over again, just like he did when Viktor asked him about clothes; just like he did when Viktor innocently tapped his shoulder last night.

“Yuuri?”

He blinks and glances up at the door. Phichit is standing there, scratching his elbow absently and looking more uncomfortable than Yuuri has ever seen him. Yuuri startles a bit. He didn’t hear the younger man come in.

“I couldn’t help but overhear…” Phichit says. “Are you…?”

Phichit doesn’t even have time to finish his sentence, because it’s then that the tsunami comes crashing down. Yuuri’s so sick of crying. He can’t believe he even has any tears left at this point. And yet they come, tumbling down his face in time with the sobs hitching in his throat.

It feels shameful to cry in front of Phichit, who always has a smile on his face. So Yuuri buries his tears in his hands, hiding the visual evidence and foolishly hoping Phichit will forget he’s seen anything.

The Thai man does no such thing. In fact, he comes closer.

“Oh, Yuuri, please don’t cry! You’ll make _me_ cry, and-” He cuts off with a sharp gasp. “See?”

It takes Yuuri a couple of seconds to realise Phichit is, indeed, crying too. As he’s taking his hands away from his face, the Thai man throws his arms around Yuuri’s neck none too gently and yanks him forward. He gets a face full of Phichit’s green t-shirt and feels his nose pressing against the soft spot below Phichit’s sternum. His hands get trapped somewhere in the Thai man’s grasp. He can smell vanilla and sugar – a scent so distinctly Phichit, Yuuri would have been able to relate it to the younger man even without having smelled it first. And he freezes for all of half a second before he frees his arms and wraps them tightly around Phichit’s waist.

Somehow – _somehow_ – Yuuri feels a little better. He hates being touched, sometimes he can’t even stand Yurio’s careful hands. Yet Phichit’s arms, shaking with sadness and wound a little _too_ tight around him, feel like sinking into a warm bath. It’s comfortable. It’s soothing. It’s everything it’s supposed to be. Any traces of fear he held for Phichit before are gone. Suddenly, in that moment, he believes what Viktor has been telling him with all his heart. And that thought is enough to quickly assure Yuuri, even if only for a moment, that things might just be okay.

The pair of them stay like that for what must be several minutes. Phichit seems to be sobbing far louder than Yuuri is, but the sounds of Yurio storming through the house and cursing in Russian have long died down. Yuuri lets Phichit cry. He just sits there and holds him, keeping his face buried against his stomach because it’s a comfort to both of them.

Maybe all this time, he thinks, what he’s really needed is for someone to hug him.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri mutters. “I’m sorry I’ve been wasting your-”

“Yuuri, don’t ever say that!” Phichit says with a gasp, pulling back to stare down at him with determination in his dark eyes. “Don’t ever be sorry for anything! Yurio was just upset, he didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” Yuuri nods. “But he’s right. I’m selfish and-”

Phichit groans. “You’re not selfish, Yuuri. After what you’ve been through, I’m amazed that you’re doing so _well_. Not wanting to eat…well, I’m not a doctor, but after everything, I’m pretty sure that’s normal. Please, please, _please_ don’t ever say you’re sorry. You have no reason to be sorry. It’s _them_ who should be sorry! Those disgusting men, if you can even call them that.”

Seeing the younger man get so angry on his behalf stirs something like calmness in Yuuri. When he really thinks about it, he realises that everyone else has been doing their best to tread lightly around him. Not without reason, of course, but perhaps it hasn’t done him any favours. Everyone has been careful to avoid seeming too emotional, seemingly for fear of upsetting him. But Phichit is emotional now, and in that moment, it validates everything he’s feeling and has ever felt.

He makes the move this time. Drawing Phichit closer, he almost relishes in that scent when he presses his face against his stomach.

“Did you feel like this when you first came here?”

It’s an innocent question. Or, at least, it’s innocent enough in the sense that Yuuri genuinely wants to know how Phichit handled his own trauma. He wants to know if this _is_ common, and for some reason, he feels like Phichit might understand what he’s talking about.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Phichit to pull away, and for his eyes to sparkle with more tears as he lets out a short, humourless laugh.

“Yuuri, everyone handles things differently,” Phichit says softly, finally sitting down on the sofa beside him. He slides one of his hands down to Yuuri’s arm and gives it a brief squeeze before letting go. “But I never had to go through any of what you or Yurio or Chris went through.”

He wants to ask, but he can’t bring himself to do so. Phichit seems to understand considering he goes on to elaborate.

“The slavery laws in Thailand aren’t much different from the laws here,” Phichit explains with a hint of sadness in his voice. “I was fifteen or sixteen, I think. I can’t really remember. There were around ten of us taken that day. Ten girls and boys. I think the youngest was a ten-year-old girl. I was the oldest. Maybe they thought I was younger? I have quite a young face.”

The Thai man laughs a little again, but it’s still without warmth. Yuuri understands. There’s nothing funny about slavery. Especially not where children are involved.

“For around a week or two – I’m not sure, it was hard to judge how much time passed – we were kept in this warehouse near the harbour. Then they loaded us onto a ship, and we set sail for Australia the next morning. We weren’t treated kindly, but nobody ever…hurt us. Not like that. I was terrified all the same. They weren’t impressed by me. My English wasn’t very good, you see, and that was going to be a problem when we got to America.

“Once we were in Australia, we boarded a boat to America. It took so long to get there. The only thing that stopped me losing my mind from the boredom was all the other kids. The ones who took us kept us all in the same little holding cell he whole way there.”

Phichit trails off for a moment, and Yuuri notices a far-away look in his eye. He doesn’t push for the young man to continue. Just waits patiently.

“Then we got to America. Viktor never explained it, and I never wanted to ask, but I assumed that maybe slaves weren’t the only questionable cargo on board that day. He was there with his father, and his handsome blond slave.” Phichit smiles fondly at this, and there’s a slight blush spreading over his cheeks. “An army of bodyguards. And a few business associates, I think. Chris was actually the one who spotted us first. I saw him from all the way across the dock as we were being unloaded. He pointed us out to Viktor. I think he felt like he wanted to help, but he knew there was nothing he could do.

“While we were being moved to vans for transport, I kind of panicked. Most of the slavers seemed preoccupied with Mr. Nikiforov. None of them were paying attention to tiny little me. And I was so slim, I managed to wriggle free of the cuffs they were using to pull us along. It was so stupid of me. But like I said, I panicked. I ran.

“I was caught, obviously, not even ten seconds later. I didn’t get very far at all. And I was so afraid. I couldn’t really understand what everyone was saying. But I figured out that they wanted to kill me when one of them pulled a knife on me. They took little Thai boys and girls because they believed we wouldn’t be too feisty. I seemed like too much trouble. I probably wouldn’t sell for much.”

Yuuri feels a little sick at how easily Phichit rattles off that mantra. He wonders how often, when Phichit was locked in a cell on that ship, his captors drilled that into his head. He wonders – and wishes he couldn’t imagine – if Phichit was torn between trying to escape what he must have known might be coming, and accepting it.

“Viktor saved me. He was younger then. Twenty-three, I think. It’s so hard to remember little things like that,” Phichit says, shaking his head. “He told them to stop, and that he was interested in me. He made up a convincing story, apparently. I wasn’t really listening. Chris later told me he offered to pay anything they wanted. They gave me to him for free.”

Another hollow laugh.

“That first night, I was terrified. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I only knew the horrible things I’d been taught to expect. When Viktor let me shower, fed me, gave me clothes, I thought it was all some kind of game. I locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out. At some point, he left with his father so it was just me and Chris. And I didn’t trust him for a second. He was a much taller, stronger-looking man. It’s not too uncommon for slaves to target other slaves, you know. Something about Chris just made me uneasy.”

Fondness lights up in Phichit’s near-black eyes like the flame of a candle. It burns subtly, but Yuuri sees it.

“But Chris…he was wonderful. I was much younger mentally than my physical age, I think. I can remember lying in bed in that hotel room, crying and shaking under the covers. I remember asking to go home. I asked for my mother. I could barely speak or understand English. I still don’t know how Chris managed to get me to _let_ him come near me. But he was so patient and reassuring. He stayed with me all night. When Viktor and his father came back, and I was too afraid to face them, he hid under the blankets with me. And he just kept talking to me, telling me things I couldn’t understand at the time.

“That was five years ago. It took me a long time to trust Chris. And it took me even longer to trust Viktor. Even though they never gave me any reason to be afraid of them – _any_ of them – my fear wasn’t something that I could turn off overnight.

“I didn’t lose my appetite, Yuuri,” Phichit says, looking so saddened that Yuuri’s breath falters in his chest. “But what I _did_ do was cry. Every single night for weeks, I cried myself to sleep because I wanted to go home. To see my mother. Even after I’d accepted that Chris and Viktor wouldn’t hurt me, even after I considered them my friends. God, even _now_ it’s sometimes hard. It doesn’t matter how close I am with them or how much I love them, it’s still so unfair. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and suddenly the only place I can ever be free is in this house. Viktor did all he could to make it easier for me. He really went above and beyond what I could have hoped for. And Chris has always been there for me whenever I asked, and sometimes even when I didn’t. They both have. Until it became easier.

“Yuuri, what I’m trying to say is that of _course_ you’re in a bad place right now. But you won’t always be. I’m sure of it. Because we’re all going to help you. We don’t want you to suffer in silence. We want you to be okay. So if there’s anything any of us can do to help you get there, you have to let us know.”

At first, Yuuri doesn’t realise he’s crying. Then he blinks, and a wave of tears cascade down his face as if they’ve been sitting there waiting to be displaced. He’s partly upset by Phichit’s story and how unfair it truly is – the image of this boy with the same build as Yurio lying terrified of his fate and wanting to go home will stay with him for a while. But Yuuri also feels an inexplicable sense of relief.

Really, he’s not stupid at all, but he supposes after so many months of living with Isaak and Matvei, he’s forgotten that not everyone is cruel. Some people – _most_ people – care and wouldn’t leave him to struggle on. He doesn’t know why it has had to go as far as Yurio screaming at him then having Phichit share his story for him to accept this.

Like Phichit said, though, it’s not something that will fix itself overnight. However, having it spelled out to him plainly that everyone in this house cares for him is enough for now. Nobody wants to hurt him, nobody wants to see him hurting. They care. And it’s all right for them to care, just as it’s all right for him to ask for help.

Yuuri wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Phichit,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said the other man’s name to his face. It has some effect on the Thai man, because a moment later, his brown hand is squeezing Yuuri’s. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Phichit nods slowly, saying nothing. He’s letting him finish, Yuuri realises.

“After that…” Yuuri whispers it, like he’s afraid of someone overhearing what he’s about to say. “After that, maybe I could show you how to make katsudon for dinner?”

Phichit’s smile is dazzling. Yuuri knows it’s not a smile that is relieved or happy because Yuuri is going to eat every bit of the high-calorie dish. The Thai man understands, somehow. Yuuri knows it. The Thai man understands that wanting to cook anything is but a small step in the right direction. He expects nothing. The smile is simply meant to be a form of silent agreement, or of positive anticipation. But because it’s on Phichit, it’s bright and makes the room shine.

Phichit tells him softly to go and have his shower and to take his time. As they get to their feet together to head out of the family room, the Thai man reassures him that he’s about to clean out his hamster cages, so there is no rush. And Yuuri appreciates it in ways he could never say, because it’s like Phichit knows exactly what he needs to hear in order to keep his anxiety to a minimum.

He wants to thank Phichit when they are about to part ways and head to their respective bedrooms. No words come out. So instead, Yuuri smiles timidly but genuinely.

Maybe he _can_ do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless Phichit for being a sweetheart <3 I couldn't bear to make Phichit go through anything like what the others went through, but it only makes sense that going into slavery would he emotionally harrowing, especially on someone as sweet as our favourite Thai boy. Strongly considering writing a long one-shot (posted separately from this story) about Phichit's enslavement and all the details surrounding the story he told. I don't know yet. What do you guys think? It'd be heavy on fluffy/platonic Chris/Phichit stuff (because Phichit IS only 15/16 at the time). But I'm not saying Phichit doesn't have a massive crush on Chris NOW :P
> 
> Next chapter, we're back in Yurio's head! Yurio, who apparently converts all strong emotions to anger. Maybe Otabek will have something that can make him feel better :P
> 
> Thank you all once again SO much for your love and support, and your messages offering me friendship and a place to stay should I need it and all of those wonderful things <3 You guys are amazing, and I never could have imagined I'd be blessed to interact with such great people! Please don't worry about me too much. I think I have a lot of anxiety and other problems relating to what I went through, but physically I am safe and I am living with someone who now knows my situation and seems to be taking it all in his stride. Things will improve! And hopefully the next update won't take so long.
> 
> Also, BluSkates wrote their own version of Phichit's story as a gift to me! It's obviously not canon to the story, but I adore it so much, and I think you should all read it!   
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10709214/chapters/23723520


	14. One Big Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yurio reflects a little, and Otabek tries to fix what's broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with the feels train! Strap in, guys, I was feeling some things this chapter :P It's a massive cluster of frick.
> 
> Content warnings: copious amounts of swearing, and a panic attack.

**Yuri**

If Yuri is being honest with himself, he’s not entirely sure why he’s so upset. All he knows is that stupid Yuuri is being selfish and stupid and oh so infuriating, and Yuri can’t seem to stop the moisture collecting in his eyes and the heat in his veins from making his blood boil.

_Selfish, selfish, selfish, stupid fucking shithead, fuck-_

He feels like he’s going crazy. Can’t seem to calm down. Everything is crumbling for some reason. Why is Yuuri being like this? Hasn’t Yuri tried so hard to keep him afloat? Hasn’t he broken his own back enough for the stupid Japanese pig? And now look. He’s being repaid with a big fat nothing. Well, he’ll remember that. And the next time that fucking shithead wants _anything_ from him-

Yuri turns to leave because if he stays…if he stays, he has no idea what might happen.

Phichit is standing on the other side of the door. The Thai man leaps back when he marches out, and Yuri instinctually warns him to get fucked in guttural Russian but doesn’t pay him any more mind. How can he, when he sees Chris hovering by the stairs with Makkachin, and Nikiforov standing at the top? Both men look equally concerned – Yuri doesn’t care who they’re worried about or what’s going through their heads. Fuck them. Fuck both of them. Fuck that damn mutt too.

He tells them this in as many creative ways as possible, all in his native tongue, and he doesn’t even feel bad when Makkachin whines and flattens his ears. When Otabek steps out of the kitchen and eyes him up reproachfully, Yuri invites him to shove his own head up his ass.

For as bold as he’s feeling, though, Yuri doesn’t want to go anywhere near any of them. So instead of heading for the stairs so he can retreat to his own room, he storms down one of the corridors and heads to the conservatory. He takes extra care to kick a table on his way there. A decorative and expensive-looking vase topples to the floor and shatters, and Yuri relishes in it. In fact, the noise is so therapeutic that he makes sure to stomp his feet extra hard, and when he wrenches the glass door to the conservatory open and it rattles, he almost grins.

Yuri tries to break the thing. Or at least crack it. With far more force than necessary, he kicks it shut. He’s kind of hoping that his legs, slim as they are, still retain the power they had when he was going through a rigorous training regime for his skating. The door doesn’t break though. And Yuri’s kind of upset about it, because not only is his frustration not being abated by breaking stuff, but it’s just a solid reminder of how weak he’s become since being enslaved.

So he opens the door and slams it again. It doesn’t break. He does it a third time, and again, it doesn’t break. Yuri practically screams in frustration as he tears himself away from the thing and, instead, kicks the nearest object. The small stack of magazines on the short coffee table slide apart and scatter. His toes throb in his borrowed shoes. He furiously unlaces them and throws them at the door that won’t break.

It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make _any fucking sense._

Except that it does, and Yuri’s already starting to feel bad for screaming in Yuuri’s face. He probably shouldn’t have screamed, but fuck, doesn’t that Japanese idiot understand how stupid he’s being? Why struggle? Why sit there and starve instead of taking to someone? _Anyone_? Why choose to do this and make Yuri feel worthless and useless instead of trying to get better?

It feels like everything was for nothing. Isaak hissing in his ear that he’d shoot Yuuri the second they were separated; Otabek dragging Yuri kicking and screaming from Yuuri’s side so that Viktor could tend to him; Yuri thinking for a short while that Otabek was going to make use of him like Isaak and Matvei never did, but still only wanting to see Yuuri. It feels pointless. Yuri suffering for what might have been a lifetime when he wasn’t allowed to go to his friend, and then sleeping in that sweat-soaked bed with him for a full week afterwards – pointless. Trying to feed him mouthfuls of Phichit’s lovingly-made soup, wiping his feverish body down with a cool wet cloth, clutching his hand and whispering words of comfort – _pointless_.

What even _is_ the point of all that if Yuuri is just going to give up? All that pain, all that fear, and it’s for fucking nothing.

Fucking hell, Yuri is crying.

He doesn’t even walk around the sofa to sit on it. Instead, he climbs over the back and throws himself into the plush cushions, curling up on his side and shivering in the cold. He wishes the cushions were harder. He doesn’t even deserve to be comfortable. Feeling shit because he’s an asshole, and because of Yuuri, he lets himself be cold. If Yuuri’s going to let himself suffer like the fucking idiot that he is, then Yuri will suffer too. Because fuck Yuuri. He’s not special. Yuri’s been through horrible things too. Yuuri Katsuki is _not_ special.

He’s _not_. It doesn’t matter that he’s the one Isaak and Matvei used as a fuck toy, incessantly, night after night, sometimes throughout the day, making him bleed, hurt, cry out, scream. All because of Yuri. He did it all because of Yuri, he _asked_ for it all because of Yuri, and oh God, suddenly Yuri understands why it’s so hard for him to understand.

Yuuri _asked_ for it. Very literally. He asked for it, but…

Oh _fuck_ , Yuri is a terrible, awful person.

That damned glass door opens, and Yuri wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for the clicking sound the latch made. It clicks again when whoever has entered closes the door.

“Fuck off,” Yuri warns in Russian.

“Why?” comes Otabek’s own smooth Russian. “Are you going to scream at me for no reason too?”

Yuri scowls, but doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. Otabek doesn’t seem to be coming any closer either.

“That’s none of your business,” Yuri snarls.

“Well, considering you just disturbed the entire house and I happen to live here, I’m making it my business.”

If Yuri squints, it looks kind of like Otabek is threatening him. He knows the Kazakh isn’t – he wouldn’t _dare_. But it’s far too easy for Yuri to jump to conclusions when he’s upset.

He wrenches himself upright on the sofa, twisting his body so he can stare at the Kazakh, clothed in blacks and greys and looking purposefully imposing. Yuri has to snort at the irritated scowl on his angular face. So Otabek’s quiet has been upset. So what? Yuri doesn’t give a shit.

“Ooh, look at you,” Yuri mocks. “Big scary bodyguard, coming in here to intimidate the little blond boy into shutting up. I’ve got news for you – you don’t scare me.”

“I’m not here to intimidate you,” Otabek says, his voice hard. “I’m here to ask you what the hell you think you’re doing.”

“I- what?”

“Do you really believe that telling him he’s selfish and stupid is going to help him get better?” Otabek asks. His voice is soft and non-confrontational. Yuri bristles anyway. “I’m not saying that everyone should be walking on eggshells around him – in fact, I think it would do him a lot of good to have people act _normal_. And that includes you. But you can’t say things like that to him right now.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Yuri snaps back.

“Do you honestly _want_ to see him suffer? Don’t you want to see him get better?” Otabek demands quietly. “If you keep saying things like that, you’ll only knock his confidence.”

Yuri grits his teeth. “As someone who’s _not a slave here_ , I can do whatever the hell I want. You can’t stop me.”

Otabek’s sigh is like a breath on the wind. He barely hears it, but he does see it.

“Not being a slave doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole.”

He’s almost shocked that Otabek has dared to say it, but instead of a sharp quip in response, what comes out is, “I don’t need _you_ to tell me I’m an asshole! I already know!”

Oh, shit.

Wrenching himself to face the other way so he can discreetly wipe his eyes, he seethes. Why is it that Otabek always seems to get under his skin? Every time they talk, the man says or does something that sets him off in some way. He either makes Yuri cry, or he makes him angry. Or both.

 _He’s_ the asshole here.

“Yuri,” Otabek says with a sigh. “We’re all here for you too, you know.”

“Are you saying I’m jealous of the attention he’s getting?” Yuri demands coldly.

“Not at all,” Otabek replies, and it’s so painfully genuine. Yuri wonders if he’s ever told a lie in his life. “I’m just saying that we all know it’s hard for you too. You yelled at your friend to just ask for help. Why don’t you take your own advice? Tell me what you want us to do for you.”

Yuri doesn’t allow himself the time to be touched by the Kazakh’s words.

“I want you to fuck off and leave me alone,” he growls, finally getting to his feet and rounding on Otabek who is standing in the middle of the room. “What are you even doing here? Why are you always harassing me? If I wanted your nose in my business, I’d invite you in! Can’t you take a hint? I don’t want anything to do with you!”

His mind is becoming messy again. He’s shouting and pushing Otabek away when really, somewhere underneath his anger, he wants the man to keep pushing back. There’s not a chance in hell he could talk to Otabek on his own. He _needs_ to be pushed. If Otabek doesn’t keep at it, Yuri knows he’ll never talk. And on some level, he still doesn’t want to, because fuck Yuuri and fuck Otabek and fuck everyone else in this house, he’s _fine_ anyway.

Why is he like this? Why can’t he just be mature? Why can’t things just make sense?

Otabek doesn’t move an inch. All he does is stand there, staring. It’s a little condescending. Suddenly Yuri stops wanting him to push. He _hates_ this idiot Kazakh with his stupid hair and his stupid leather jacket.

“If you won’t leave me alone, then _I’ll_ leave,” Yuri snarls, fully intending to storm out of here the same way he came in and hide in his room for the next few days.

Otabek takes several steps back and blocks the door with his body. Yuri’s fear barely flickers before it turns to all-out rage.

“Get out of my way,” he orders.

“Yuri, I’m trying to help you,” Otabek insists. “You’re upset, and I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“I don’t _care_ what you think!”

His vision is blurry, and he has no idea if it’s because there are tears collecting in his eyes or if it’s because his toes and fingers are starting to go numb. Oh God, what’s happening to him? He can barely breathe.

“Let me out!”

Yuri isn’t even sure he’s aware of what he’s doing. His body moves as if controlled by a puppeteer, lunging at Otabek. He doesn’t try to hit the older man – what would be the point? But he _does_ grab at his leather jacket, trying to pull the man away from the door, trying to get him to do _anything_ but stand there and stare. Fuck, if he wants to help, why doesn’t he _do_ something? Why doesn’t he just move?

“Yuri, you have to calm down.” His baritone voice is muffled.

“Fuck you,” Yuri slurs out. “Move!”

His heart is in his throat and his ears, and the only thing he can hear is an odd whooshing sound that’s reminiscent of his skates on the ice. He can’t breathe. There’s only that noise. The noise, and the heat, and a snake constricting tight around his chest and his neck, and it won’t let him breathe.

Hands on his arms. Gripping just above his elbows. Gentle, but firm. Yuri can’t twist away. He tries. He feels his neck crack when he does.

“Let go of me!” Yuri manages, writhing and jerking violently.

“I’m sorry,” comes Otabek’s voice. “I’m sorry. Yuri, you’re panicking. You have to calm down. Breathe. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Then let me!” Yuri gasps, finally staring up at where he thinks Otabek’s face is. All he can see is a mass of dark hair and tanned skin through the blur in his eyes. “You can’t control me! I can do whatever I want!”

He’s starting to sound a bit obsessive, he thinks. But Otabek doesn’t seem to get it. He still doesn’t let Yuri go. So Yuri kicks him in the shin, but with his bare feet, it only serves to hurt _him_ and not Otabek. He twists again. Tries to hit Otabek. Tugs himself back. Drops his weight. Still, Otabek’s hands remain wrapped around his arms, gentle but firm.

“Yuri, _please_ , you’re scaring me,” Otabek shouts, but Yuri doesn’t care. He fights and fights though he knows the man isn’t going to let him go, and it exhausts him until his vision is going black and a tingling sensation is travelling through his toes and fingers, leaving numbness in its wake. “Calm down, Yuri. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe. You’re okay.”

Oh, how he wants to tell Otabek to take his unsolicited advice and shove it where the sun don’t shine. But he can’t. How can he talk when he can’t breathe? So he listens instead. Vaguely registering that Otabek is lowering him to the floor so he can sit, he tries to take the fucker’s advice.

“I hate you,” he spits between breaths.

“You can hate me after you’ve calmed down.”

Fuck him for saying that so emotionlessly.

Yuri doesn’t know how long it takes him to actually calm down. He feels dizzy and a little sick, and his toes are still tingling, and he’s _still_ got his hands fisted weakly in Otabek’s jacket. Feeling embarrassed, he tears them away. Then Otabek lets go of his arms.

The Kazakh man starts talking. Yuri gathers that he’s apologising, giving more advice, and generally saying things that are supposed to be comforting. But really, he doesn’t take in a single word of it. He’s still trying to figure out what just happened. Otabek said he was panicking. He’s never panicked like that before. He’s never felt _anything_ like that before.

He kicked and screamed when Otabek pulled him away from Yuuri two weeks ago. He sobbed like a baby when he thought Otabek was going to…

But he’s never felt his body go numb like that before. Is _that_ what Yuuri feels every time he’s upset? Is that what Yuri’s possibly just _made_ him feel? Oh fuck, he’s a terrible person and a terrible friend. He should go and apologise somehow. He should do _something_.

Otabek’s still here though. He’s lapsed into silence, and is staring at Yuri again. At least this time, they’re both sitting. It feels like a level playing field.

“You okay?” Otabek asks. He looks a little sheepish. As he should.

“No thanks to _you_.” Yuri’s voice is uneven.

The Kazakh ducks his head. “I…I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… This is all new to me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never been there for someone like this before.”

“Well-” Yuri’s never really had anyone be there for him like this either. He’s not counting Yuuri, whom he couldn’t possibly confide anything in. At least not yet. Not with regards to Isaak and Matvei. Maybe he’s a little guilty of not knowing what to do either. Not that he’d ever tell Otabek that. “Well, stop freaking me out like that!”

Otabek nods. “Yuri…I wish you’d be more open with me. I’m trying to be your friend. How can I know what to do if you won’t talk to me?”

He wants to scowl and tell Otabek that he doesn’t _need_ any friends, but the words die in his throat before he can get them out. Because really, what excuse does he have to refuse the Kazakh? It’s not as if he dislikes the man, for as much as he yells that he does.

Yuri doesn’t appreciate not being allowed to storm off and huff for a few days. If he’d done that, he likely wouldn’t have panicked, as Otabek put it, just now. But at the same time… At the same time, he understands. Sort of. Maybe. Otabek is concerned. He’s trying. Failing badly, but trying all the same.

And yet Yuri doesn’t say anything. No affirmation of acceptance. Nothing. He kind of thinks he should, but the mortification that comes from behaving like a five-year-old having a tantrum is ringing in his head, and his voice just won’t come to him. And honestly, Otabek trying so hard to be his friend is just a _little_ creepy. What’s with the lowkey obsession? The man knows about his figure skating career – is he an old fan? That’s… _extra_ creepy, if so. Yuri darkly remembers his _Yuri’s Angels_ days, then immediately feels bad when he realises there are thousands of girls (and otherwise) all over the world who have probably worried about him.

A sudden thought strikes him. It’s kind of a low blow considering what he’s about to ask for is more of a test than anything else. But if Otabek wants him to be honest…

“I want…I want to make a phone call,” he says carefully, eyeing up Otabek for any signs of anger or shock.

Otabek looks neither shocked nor angry, though. If anything, he looks relieved. Even a smile breaks out over his face as a sigh escapes him.

“Of course,” he says, and he reaches into his jacket pocket to hand Yuri his phone. “Call as many people as you want. Let your family know you’re okay.”

When Otabek places the phone in his hand, a surge of emotion so strong courses through him that he nearly bursts into tears again. This is freedom. He’s holding freedom in his hand. He can call his grandpa. He can reassure the old man, who’s alone and has been worried sick for over a year, that he’s alive. He can hear that gruff voice again.

Yuri hesitates. He hesitates because he realises he already _has_ been putting a surprising amount of trust in Otabek. By shouting, screaming, speaking frankly and rudely, and all of the other things he’s done, he recognises that it’s a very unique kind of trust. But this…this feels bigger. Perhaps there’s a lot Otabek will let him get away with, but if this all turns out to be some sick game… Isaak and Matvei would never have let him make a phone call. Ever. Suggesting anything to do with something outside of their house was always something that warranted punishment. A harsh one. Yuri sort of can’t even believe he dared to ask.

But then Otabek’s lips slide into a tiny, gentle smile, and he gives Yuri a nod of encouragement. Yuri thinks he’ll take a punishment later if that’s his reality – anything to hear his grandpa’s voice again.

Nothing feels real as he punches in the memorised number with shaking fingers. It’s like he’s in a dream when he lifts Otabek’s phone to his ear and listens to the ringing tone. Is this even really happening? Has Otabek really just handed over his personal phone? Has Yuri really just dialled his grandpa’s number?

A lifetime goes by. The phone just rings. Otabek stares, as per usual. Any second now. Any second. The mounting anticipation coils in his belly like a sickness.

There’s a click, a crackle.

“ _Hello_?”

Yuri’s heart leaps up into his throat and makes it hard to breathe again. He’s acutely aware of how vulnerable he must look. Thankfully, Otabek takes the hint and gets to his feet to wander to the sofa and read a magazine. It’s a good illusion of privacy. Maybe this is all real.

“ _Is anyone there_?” his grandpa’s gravelly voice comes down the line.

Yuri swallows.

“Hi…Grandpa,” he whispers.

There’s a silence – poignant and heavy – and Yuri doesn’t breathe or move or say anything else. He doesn’t know what else _to_ say.

“… _Yurochka?_ ”

Fuck.

“It’s me,” Yuri answers, his voice wavering and on the verge of breaking. But he can’t. He can’t. He’s already exhausted enough energy selfishly admonishing his friend and fighting Otabek. And he doesn’t want to worry his grandpa any more.

“ _You’re alive…I can’t believe it, you’re alive. Yurochka, what…what happened to you?_ ”

Yuri doesn’t tell him _everything_. He only explains as much as he can without giving the old man all the gory details. His grandpa’s worst fears are confirmed when Yuri tells him about his kidnap and subsequent enslavement: it’s not exactly news to the man that Yuri is rather pretty for a male, and it’s hardly a secret that there’s a market out there for his type. It’s clear Nikolai Plisetsky doesn’t believe Yuri when Yuri tells him he’s fine – not hurt, no one has ever hurt him. At least not in the way he knows his grandpa is imagining. He tries to tell him about Yuuri, and how the Japanese man – then a stranger – protected him. The old man relents verbally, but clearly his heart is breaking thinking his grandson is lying to spare him.

His grandpa’s gruff voice is filled with emotion as he explains how there was an outcry among the skating community (and Yuri’s fans) when he disappeared. Yuri’s a little emotional as he learns of how the police stopped the search suspiciously early on into the investigation, which gave everyone an inkling as to what had happened, and people began setting up their own searches, demanding his release, demanding his return home.

Reassurances tumble from Yuri’s lips when his grandpa starts asking why he’s suddenly being allowed to call. Has something changed? Is he being sent elsewhere? Has he – God forbid – had enough use and is now going to be disposed of? Yuri tells him briefly about his new situation, unsure of how safe it is for his grandfather to know the details considering Nikiforov’s supposed reputation.

“I promise I’m safe,” Yuri says. “Grandpa, I’d never lie to you. These are good people,” he adds grudgingly, knowing Otabek can hear every word.

“ _I don’t believe you_ ,” his grandpa bites back. “ _How can I believe you? Yurochka, I need to see you. I need to see for myself that you’re all right_.”

The idea of seeing his grandpa, touching him and inhaling the smell of cigar smoke and pirozhki, makes Yuri’s lower lip wobble.

“Grandpa…I can’t. You _know_ I can’t.”

“ _If these were truly good people, they’d let you see me,_ ” the man growls. “ _Tell me where you are. I’ll tell the world, I’ll do everything I can to bring you home_. _You just have to tell me where you are_.”

Home. Oh, how Yuri wants to go home.

He shakes his head. There’s nothing anyone can do now that he’s in the system. It’s too dangerous. Even if Otabek decides to let him go, it will never be official. If he’s caught again, if someone in the industry sees him, if _anyone_ were to know, he’d be dragged right back here.

“Grandpa, please-”

“Yuri.”

He glances up at Otabek, who is still staring adamantly at the first page of the magazine he opened.

“I’ll take you to see your grandpa,” the Kazakh says, still not looking over.

“You-” His breath is stolen from his throat for a moment. “You will?”

Otabek nods. “I’ll have to arrange it with Viktor. But it won’t be a problem. You can let him know when to expect us later today.”

Yuri is speechless, his words getting caught in his already tight throat, so he only nods at Otabek. He manages to relay the news to his grandpa.

“ _You swear you’ll call back?_ ” Grandpa demands. “ _You’re not just going to hang up and I’ll never hear from you again?_ ”

“I promise I’ll call back,” Yuri says with conviction, because Otabek saying he’ll reunite him with his grandpa has made him feel light and hopeful. “You won’t lose me again.”

“ _I don’t trust these people you’re with_ ,” the old man growls.

“Grandpa…” Yuri groans. “I’ll explain everything when I see you, okay? You’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.”

Neither of them want to hang up, but Yuri knows they have to. He’s so _so_ tired from today already, and he needs time to recuperate and process everything that’s happened. For as much as he’d love to stay on the phone with his grandpa for hours, he _needs_ time.

“I…I love you, grandpa,” he admits quietly.

There’s a quivering sigh on the other end of the line “ _I love **you**_ **,** _Yurochka. Don’t disappear again, all right_?”

“I won’t,” Yuri promises with a balloon in his throat. “Never again.” There’s a pause. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“ _Okay, my boy_ ,” the man replies, and fucking hell, somehow that’s more painful than the nickname. “ _I’ll be waiting._ ”

“Bye.”

“ _Bye, Yurochka_.”

His grandpa is the one who hangs up, leaving Yuri sitting there with the phone still pressed against his ear even though he knows the old man is gone. 

It takes a grand total of two and a half seconds for any tears to fall, but there aren’t many. He wipes his face and nose with his sleeve, and feels a little bad about it because this hoodie was borrowed from Phichit, as he tries to process what exactly just happened. He called his grandpa. That was his grandpa’s voice. His grandpa’s gruff, scratchy voice, abused from years of smoking and one too many vodkas in his youth. The same one that cheered him on throughout his skating career, the same one that whispered reassurances and grudgingly sang lullabies when he was five and his mother left for good. That same voice that told him the night he was kidnapped to have fun and be safe.

The world around him is surreal, like he’s somewhere between asleep and awake. Because he _actually_ just talked to his grandpa. It feels like talking to someone who was presumed dead. He wonders how the old man – sitting in his living room alone – feels right now. He wonders how many times his grandpa frantically dialled his number only to get no response because the thugs that took him shattered his phone. He wonders how many hours the man spent sitting by the phone, losing sleep, not eating, not drinking, as he waited for someone to call and bring him news of Yuri’s whereabouts.

It's not fair, he thinks. Isaak and Matvei ruined so much. Far more than Yuuri, anyway. It’s not too uncommon for Masters to grant their slaves permission to keep in contact with their family at set times. But Isaak and Matvei never allowed that. Yuri was never allowed near a phone, or any kind of device that might allow him contact with anyone outside of that prison. Not even for a few minutes so he could ease his grandpa’s strained old heart.

But Otabek…suddenly, Yuri feels a rush of warmth towards the Kazakh whom he’d been trying so hard to hate until now. Even if it’s a lie – that Otabek will take him to see his grandpa who lives all the way in Moscow – the surge of gratitude Yuri feels for being allowed the phone call is indescribable. It’s a bit like the gratitude he first felt for Yuuri when the Japanese man offered himself up to protect him. Without all the burning, twisting guilt.

When he looks up, Otabek is crouching down in front of him. He’s a respectful distance away, but close enough to take the phone when Yuri hands him it back.

“How are you feeling?” the Kazakh asks.

Yuri just nods. He doesn’t know if he can speak.

“I meant what I said, Yuri,” Otabek goes on. “I’ll take you to see him. I would have offered sooner…I _should_ have offered sooner, but I didn’t think. As soon as Viktor gives us the go-ahead, we can leave. And we can stay for as long as you want. Just tell me where we’re going so I can make transport arrangements.”

“Moscow,” Yuri whispers. He has no idea where they are now, but he knows it can’t be anywhere near Moscow when he thinks about the travel the day he was taken.

“Moscow?” Otabek asks, surprised. “Okay. Flying would be quicker, but by the time we got your passport sorted out… We can take the train. Or we can drive. Driving would take longer. Either way, it’d be a long journey: we’re a little ways east of St Petersburg.”

Yuri nearly chokes on air. St Petersburg? Moscow must be at least ten hours away, by car. And not much shorter by train. He opens his mouth to say he wants to go by train, to get there as quickly as possible, but he freezes before he can get a single word out.

Since becoming a slave, he’s never been out in public, but he knows the law. Slaves _must_ be collared at all times except when on private property. Which means if he and Otabek take the train, Yuri will have to don one of those awful leather atrocities and he won’t be allowed to take it off until they reach his grandpa. He shakes his head. Not a chance in hell. He can wait a few more hours if it means he doesn’t have to put one of those on.

“I’m not putting another collar around my neck,” is what he snaps, and he sees Otabek’s lips quirk into a smile that’s almost relieved.

“Then we’ll drive.” Otabek stands slowly, and Yuri does the same. Otabek makes his way to the door that Yuri tried to break earlier. “I’ll go and speak to Viktor now.”

“O-Otabek,” Yuri says, and he realises it’s the first time he’s called them man by name.

The Kazakh pauses and turns to meet his eyes. Yuri feels himself go warm.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “For…letting me use your phone.”

Otabek’s smile is small, but genuine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Otabek, you poor idiot :/ Guys, he has no idea what he's doing :P He'll learn. I really hope it didn't come across as Yuri having a tantrum then getting his own way, because that is NOT what happened >.<
> 
> Also, please go check out BluSkates! They have written THREE whole things for me in relation to this story, and they are all awesome :P One is their own version of Phichit's backstory, which is lovely and cute (dark too tho, watch out for them content warnings, but tbh if you're reading this, you can handle it). Another is a little moment between Chris and Yuri and Chris' majestic cat friend. And the final one is a hilarious melodramatic rendition of Yuuri getting his glasses which is grand if you want to laugh! I know I enjoyed it!
> 
> Finally, I really hate being made to feel like I have to explain myself, but seeing as the anon conveniently deleted their comment after posting it and I only have the e-mail to go off, let me tell you all some things. I am well aware that this story has its flaws. I am also well aware that I don't have a regular posting schedule. Some of YOU are aware that I just got out of a really bad, abusive relationship, so there is a lot of mental recuperation going on. I also wanted to say that I write this story entirely myself. It's not edited, I have no beta reader, I simply write the chapters and give them a quick read and revision before posting them. Also, I'm not a miracle-worker. No one can produce 100% perfect work. This is NOT me apologising for the fact that my story isn't perfect or the fact that I don't update regularly - this is me explaining myself. If anyone else feels the need to complain about anything (in a way that's not constructive - I WELCOME constructive criticism or questions that really make me question myself to make sure I'm doing things right), please allow me to direct your attention to the "back" button beside the search bar on your internet browser. I'm not interested in your drama. You're perfectly within your rights to question me and ask me wtf is going on (because, as I said, I don't have a beta reader - there are no fresh eyes to ask me these things BEFORE I post), but there's absolutely zero need for you to be an asshole about it.
> 
> For the rest of you - hope you enjoyed the chapter :P Here come dat Otayuri bonding! The pacing of this story is not good.


	15. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri and Otabek set out for Moscow, but things don't always go as planned...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big chapter, minimally edited! Sorry it took so long >.<
> 
> There are several important content warnings for this chapter, but there will be nothing like this intensity in the foreseeable future! It starts during the second half of the chapter, and you'll be able to tell where it will appear because I'm way too obvious.
> 
> Warnings: swearing, violence, threats, threats of rape/non-con, sexual assault, attempted rape/non-con.

**Yuri**

Viktor, as it turns out, has a massive heart. Yuri hates the man with a fiery passion – though it’s a far cry from the type of hate he feels for Isaak, for example – but he’d be the first to admit that Viktor is kind. Kind, yes. But _so_ generous and considerate and caring? Before now, Yuri didn’t think anyone like this man could exist.

Of course, the unbearable compassion is evened out by his sheer stupidity or otherwise frustratingly bubbly demeanour.

When Otabek catches Viktor in the kitchen later that evening, feeding treat after treat to an irresistibly cute Makkachin, Yuri hides behind the door and hears everything. Maybe he’s being too nosy. But he really needs to hear Viktor’s answer for himself. And Viktor delivers.

His first response is to tell Otabek to leave with Yuri right this very moment. Otabek is the one who tells Viktor to calm down, reminding him that Yuuri has an appointment in the city in just three days for glasses (Otabek being Viktor’s bodyguard is kind of a full-time job). Yuri feels his heart drop a little at that because of course something would go wrong. But then Viktor argues back. He tells Otabek not to worry about his job for once, and to focus on Yuri instead. Viktor will lie low and take Yuuri to St Petersburg himself. It’s not like it’s some high-profile event he’s going to after all. Otabek is still unsure – he says something about Viktor’s father which Yuri doesn’t quite hear. Viktor concedes that he’ll call his father to discuss the plans, but insists that Otabek leave with Yuri early tomorrow morning.

Yuri’s not even shy about the fact that he’s been eavesdropping. When Otabek steps out of the kitchen, the Kazakh says not a word, but hands his phone over instead. Yuri lets his grandpa know to expect them tomorrow night, and sits upstairs in his room feeling lighter than air as he awaits someone telling him dinner is almost ready.

He’s giddy. Restless. Bored, but excited at the same time. Chris passes by his room, and his fluffy white cat sneaks in ahead of him. Snowflake doesn’t often concern herself with anyone in the house, but occasionally Yuri spots her rubbing up against someone or making herself comfortable in the worst places possible, such as on top of the stove Phichit is about to use. Held loosely in her mouth are Chris’ round glasses. Yuri smirks.

And he waits.

Eventually, someone raps gently on the door. Yuuri enters, looking sheepish and tired, to tell him that dinner is ready. It’s katsudon. Yuri opens his mouth to say _something_ about the awful way be behaved earlier, but Yuuri smiles and shakes his head. Yuuri understands. Words aren’t needed.

The Japanese man makes light conversation as they head downstairs together. He asks a stupid question – asks if Yuri is excited about getting to see his grandpa. It’s all small talk. Yuri tells him that he should ask Viktor about going home to see his own family. Again, Yuuri only shakes his head and says that he couldn’t. That’s dumb, and Yuri wants to ask why, but his friend darts ahead when they reach the dining room, and he takes that to mean the conversation is over.

They eat – the katsudon is way too delicious. When Yuuri shyly tells everyone just how many calories are in one serving, Yuri nearly balks. But he also kind of can’t care enough, because food this good should never be ignored just because of how fattening it is. He does the math in his head afterwards when he sees that Yuuri has eaten about a third of his own dish. That’s still a good portion of his recommended daily intake. Far better than what he’s been eating previously.

That night, Yuri tosses and turns. He switches between putting the TV on for background noise and turning it off for silence, not sure which one will help him sleep. Neither does. So when the clock on the bedside table reads 4:48am, Yuri resigns himself to the fact that he’s gotten three hours of sleep at most and that will just have to be enough for now. He switches the alarm off before it has a chance to ring, forces himself out of bed, and drags his feet as he wanders into the bathroom for a shower.

Viktor has been shopping. Online shopping, but shopping nonetheless. The clothes Yuri fishes out of the chest of drawers are his own – not borrowed, for once – but they’re plain and generic. Simple stuff that Viktor chose just so he and Yuuri have _something_ to wear until they can all go shopping together, the other Russian said. Everything Yuri picks is black; black jeans, black t-shirt, black hoodie, and even black shoes with pristine white laces that he’s actually never had on. Knowing someone will berate him if he doesn’t wear enough layers, he pulls out a faded denim jacket from the wardrobe. This belonged to Phichit, but the Thai man graciously gave it up to him stating it was more Yuri’s style anyway.

He’s already feeling the effects of his terrible sleep when he ambles downstairs to grab something to eat. The rest of the house is silent, but when he pushes the door to the kitchen open, Chris and Phichit are there and they jump apart. Phichit has dark tinge to his cheeks and Chris is smirking. Yuri rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know why they bother to try to hide anything they’re up to – it’s not like anyone in this house is going to care. But he says nothing, opting to grab himself a bowl of cereal and eat it in silence.

Phichit and Chris chatter away to each other as the Thai man makes up sandwiches and some kind of pasta salad, putting it all into tubs for Otabek and Yuri. Nobody _asked_ Phichit to wake up early and make everything fresh for them, and nobody asked Chris to be there either. Yuri might have found this suspicious at one time, but now he’s surprisingly accustomed to them. It comes as no shock to him when Viktor bursts into the kitchen ten minutes later, followed by a sleepy-looking Yuuri, and Makkachin who is softly wagging his tail.

Otabek joins them at five thirty, downs his bagel and coffee (for which Yuri is thankful: he wants to get going), and all of them head for the huge garage attached to the side of the house. Yuri’s never been in here before, but he spots Otabek’s bike – a Harley, he thinks – hiding in the corner. It’s a car Otabek leads him to, though, and Yuri doesn’t have a clue about cars. All he knows is this one is black, a little sporty, and looks new.

“Have a safe journey,” Yuuri whispers in his ear as he hugs him goodbye.

The Japanese man holds him just a little too long, but it hits Yuri right then that this is the first time they’ll ever be apart. Yuuri has never been without the only person he knows for sure he can trust, and Yuri has never been taken away from the one thing that keeps him focused – looking after Yuuri.

He squeezes Yuuri back for a moment. “I’ll be fine,” he says back. “So will you. Don’t let Chris be disgusting.” Chris overhears and laughs in response as he bundles the bag of bottled water and Phichit’s food into the back seat. “Don’t pick dorky glasses either.”

Yuri laughs softly at that.

Otabek and Yuri bid everyone goodbye, and Yuri watches their receding forms in the wingmirror as Otabek drives them to the gate.

They drive into St Petersburg first, and then they start on the long road to Moscow. Otabek doesn’t say anything, and Yuri doesn’t feel much like even trying to talk considering how tired he is. Instead, he lets Otabek focus on the road so that he can stare at the passing scenery. Not that there’s much to look at. It’s mostly trees in the distance and flat expanses of land that are covered with half melted snow.

But honestly, that’s kind of exciting. The last time he was in the car, he was bound, gagged, and blindfolded. He couldn’t see the outside world around him. He could only feel the frigid wind coming through the open window in the front. Watching the plains whizz by is somehow liberating. A wave of excitement washes through him, and he thinks about his grandpa, and a small smile makes its way onto his face.

As he slouches, fidgeting until he’s comfortable and closing his eyes to try to nap, Otabek turns down the radio so that it’s nothing but background noise like the soothing rumble of the engine.

Finally, he sleeps.

When he wakes up, the time on the dashboard of the car reads 10:13am. They’ve been driving for a little over four hours. Still nowhere near there.

Yuri sits up – yawning, stretching – and shrugs out of the denim jacket. It’s freezing outside, but Otabek has turned the heat up, and it’s pleasantly warm in the car. He tosses the jacket into the back seat and kicks his shoes off so he can cross his legs. There’s a bottle of water nestled in the cup holder behind the handbrake, half empty, so Yuri unabashedly helps himself to it. Otabek doesn’t comment on it, but he _does_ ask Yuri if he’s okay.

“M’fine,” Yuri replies, voice scratchy. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

Otabek is silent for a moment.

“Yuri, I know you don’t particularly like me,” he eventually comes out with. “But I want you to know that I’m glad I can do this for you. I should have offered to do this sooner. Your first day, even your second day. The thought just never crossed my mind. I don’t see my own family, so I didn’t even consider that you might want to see yours.”

Yuri mulls that over. So Otabek doesn’t see his family… That kind of implies they are definitely still around, unlike much of Yuri’s own. It’s not a surprise really – he assumed early on that Otabek wouldn’t see his family because his life is dedicated to Viktor. But after Viktor’s insistence that Otabek take Yuri home for a while, he’s not so sure. Is it by choice that the Kazakh doesn’t see them? Did something happen? Are they not close? He wonders if it has anything to do with whatever it was that made Isaak and Matvei assume Viktor would have fired him.

“I…” Yuri says softly. “I don’t… _dislike_ you.”

It’s true. Yuri has _tried_ to convince himself he hates Otabek. He’s tried to convince himself he hates every single one of the residents of Viktor’s house. And though it’s a lie he struggles more and more to believe, admitting out loud that he actually doesn’t find Otabek to be that bad is a special kind of mortifying.

Thankfully, Otabek is perceptive enough to recognise this and says nothing.

“You got any music in this thing?” Yuri asks, rapidly diverting and not even thinking for a second that he might not be _allowed_ to put music on.

Otabek’s lips twitch into a smile. “The glovebox.”

Yuri pulls out the first CD he comes to. The cover is dark purple and black, spattered with spiked English writing.

“Welcome to the Madness?” Yuri reads aloud. “Is this heavy metal?”

“I’d say it’s more rock, but some of the songs are a little metal,” Otabek replies.

Yuri glances at the Kazakh. Otabek, with his soft voice and surprisingly gentle demeanour, doesn’t seem like the kind of person to be into this kind of music. Then again, when Yuri looks at himself – small, blond, and feminine – he supposes _he_ doesn’t either.

He puts the CD in.

“I _love_ this song!” he gasps within seconds. He doesn’t _know_ the song, but he can be sure it’s going to be his new favourite.

Otabek chuckles.

“God, if I was still a skater, I’d have loved this for my first senior exhibition!”

He misses skating. _God_ , he misses it. But he misses his grandpa more. One thing at a time, he thinks.

The song ends, and the CD skips automatically to the next one. Otabek turns it down a little.

“What got you into skating?” the Kazakh asks him. Seems like an innocent question.

“My grandpa,” he answers, careful not to spill his whole life story. “He started taking me when I was really young. I don’t know, I guess I just really liked it because I was good at it. One of the coaches who used the rink saw me trying to copy the professional skaters one day, and before I knew it I was being trained for competitions.”

“You must have been talented,” Otabek comments.

Yuri snorts. “I was the best in the entire junior division even before I was old enough to compete internationally. Do you know how many gold medals I have to my name? I should have been competing against the seniors during my last season. I was old enough. But my coach insisted I wait another year.”

He rolls his eyes. Ideally, he’d have liked to get at least one senior medal under his belt before being kidnapped and sold into slavery, he thinks dryly.

“What about you? You said you watched me in my last competition,” Yuri states, his tone accusing.

Otabek smiles a bit. “It was actually Viktor. He loves figure skating. Always has. He’s talented as well, you know. He was just never able to do it professionally considering his heritage. He makes us sit with him and watch all the events when they’re broadcast on TV.”

“I thought you were just a bodyguard?” Yuri asks bluntly.

“Maybe that’s what we’d like outsiders to think,” Otabek replies, completely glossing over Yuri’s tactless words. “I’m as much a part of Viktor’s adoptive family as Phichit and Chris are.”

Yuri hesitates. “And what about me and Yuuri?” he finds himself asking.

“I think if you relax a little, you’ll figure that out for yourself.”

Frowning softly, Yuri leans back in his seat and stares out at the road ahead. He knows. He _knows._ But to know something and to truly believe it in the subconscious mind are different things. Yuri can’t just _make_ his entire self believe it. He can’t force himself to relax.

“It’s…hard to relax,” he admits quietly.

“It will be,” Otabek agrees. “I can only imagine how hard it must be after the things you’ve seen. But given time, you’ll learn.”

Yuri swallows, side-eyeing the Kazakh. “I get…angry a lot. When I’m stressed, I get angry. I’ve always been like that, but it’s worse now. I can’t really…control it. I don’t know what else to do when I’m stressed.”

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Otabek has to keep his eyes on the road – meaning he can’t actually look at Yuri – that makes it easier to talk.

“Yuri, you have a lot more things to be stressed about now than you used to,” Otabek tells him gently. “I’ve not known Isaak and Matvei for nearly as long as Viktor or Chris have, but it’s been long enough. I can’t even imagine what it was like living with them, even if they weren’t doing to you what they were doing to your friend. I can’t imagine feeling the things you must have felt, and having no outlet. Then suddenly, everything changes. Your life before must have been awful, but it was routine. This? This isn’t routine. You have no idea what’s going on, you don’t know what to believe, you don’t realise yet how much control you have.” Otabek pauses. “Yuri, haven’t you ever considered that you’re just as affected by everything as Yuuri is? That you’re simply responding to it all now because you actually _can_?”

He blinks. No, he’s never really considered that, but Otabek makes a point so good that Yuri can’t actually respond. He knows the Kazakh is perceptive, but he didn’t realise until now just _how_ perceptive. And Yuri wants to get angry about _that_. Because how dare Otabek pay such close attention to him? Yuri is none of his business, especially considering this whole slavery thing is fake anyway.

But he can’t. He doesn’t. Somewhere in there, he’s touched. Just like when Otabek handed his phone over. Just like when Otabek offered to take him to see his grandpa.

“So wait a second,” Yuri diverts again. “My last competitive skate was over a year ago. No way you’re old enough to have been Viktor’s bodyguard for _that_ long.”

Otabek nods. “You’re right.” Oh, how Yuri loves to hear _those_ words. “I was still in training at the time. Viktor had just gotten rid of his last one. I’m not clear on the details, but I think he made Phichit feel a little uncomfortable. Viktor’s father sent one of his best men, a man named Yakov Feltsman, to be a temporary replacement until they could get someone Viktor liked. I started training under Yakov two years ago after I turned eighteen.”

“I’d have thought there was some badass facility for your training,” Yuri muttered, thinking that twenty-one sounded far too young to be a bodyguard.

“There was,” Otabek laughed. “But a big part of my training was learning how to live with Viktor and Chris and Phichit. Viktor had to be sure he could trust me, Yakov had to be sure he could trust me. I didn’t really have anywhere else to go either, and you’ve seen how Viktor likes to just take people in.”

“How come you didn’t have anywhere else to go?”

Otabek’s smile tightens a little. Yuri notices his fingers clench on the wheel for a moment.

“My family disowned me,” he explains. “Because I came out as being gay.”

“Oh…” Yuri doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Is _everyone_ gay? “I’m…sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Otabek reassures him with a shake of his head. “I’m much happier with Viktor than I ever was with my parents anyway.”

Yuri waits for a moment. “How’d you manage to land a job like this anyway?”

“It’s a long story,” Otabek says. “Maybe I’ll tell it to you when we’re not driving. I’ll say that I used to have some…less than reputable friends back in Kazakhstan. I got involved with people I shouldn’t have. I was just lucky Mr. Nikiforov gave me a second chance.”

Yuri notes quietly that apparently Otabek has had _more_ than one second chance, and then goes quiet. Listening to the CD, he dozes off again.

The journey goes like that. Yuri naps occasionally, but only for short spells. When he’s awake, he and Otabek make idle conversation that sometimes becomes interesting, but usually tails off after around ten minutes. Otabek tells him more about himself – he’s a bike lover, used to be an amateur DJ before starting training to become Viktor’s bodyguard. Yuri animatedly describes fond memories of his grandpa making pirozhki, their cat Potya swiping at the old man’s laces, and the time six-year-old Yuri tried to sneak said cat into the rink with him during practise.

Discussion is pleasant and surprisingly relaxed, even if Yuri is hesitant and suspicious at times. They snack on the food Phichit packed for them, but somewhere around one in the afternoon, Otabek pulls over so they can eat properly. Yuri eats an entire tub’s contents of some kind of pasta salad. It’s filling, but not satisfying, and he praises higher powers that Phichit included home-made brownies too.

He brings his knees up to his chest and leans against the car door to sleep again as they set off once more.

When he wakes, the sun is definitely on its way to setting, the car is stationary and surrounded by other vehicles, and Otabek looks irritated.

“Apparently there’s been a major collision up ahead,” he explains when Yuri stretches his sore limbs. “We’ve already been stuck here for two hours, and we’ve probably moved about ten feet in that time.”

Yuri glances at the clock. It’s almost five thirty. They should have already reached Moscow.

“I’m sorry,” Otabek says. “I’m really tired, Yuri. I’m going to have to take the next exit and get us a room for the night. You should call your grandpa and let him know. Tomorrow morning, we’ll be there. Noon at the latest.”

Disappointment tastes bitter on his tongue and feels like a kick in the stomach. He understands though. Otabek has already been driving for almost twelve hours with only one rest stop to eat and another to refuel. Neither of them have used the bathroom once. So he calls his grandpa, and the man is understanding about it, but he reiterates how much he misses Yuri and that he can’t wait to see him. He promises to make pirozhki for lunch.

It’s another hour before Otabek manages to take the next exit, and a further thirty minutes for them to make it to a small bed-and-breakfast after Otabek has stopped again for gas. This place is tiny, tucked away from the main road and across the street from what looks like a seedy strip club. But it was the closest place with a twin room available when Otabek looked up hotels in the area with rooms free.

Otabek seems loathe to park his car on the side of the road, but he’s too tired to actively complain about it. As he’s grabbing the bag from the back seat and Yuri is unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling his shoes back on, Yuri has a thought.

“I don’t have a collar,” he says.

Otabek pauses.

“I don’t think they’ll ask to check here,” he says eventually. “Just put your hood on. And zip it right up. Don’t act like a slave.”

“Don’t act like a slave?” Yuri repeats with a snort.

“So just be your usual charming self,” Otabek smiles. “Make eye contact. Look bored. Here, you can have my phone. Pretend you’re looking through social media or playing Angry Birds or something.”

The black smartphone is practically shoved under Yuri’s nose, but he has no qualms about taking it and doing as Otabek suggests with his clothes. A quick glance at Otabek’s home screen shows he already _has_ Angry Birds installed. Yuri can’t help his sly grin. Why pretend to play when he can just obliterate the Kazakh’s high score?

Though this street is secluded from the main street, Yuri can hear the beginnings of nightlife already forming in the distance. Not that it’ll bother him. If anything, it will feel more like home.

As Otabek predicted, the receptionist at the front desk doesn’t question Yuri’s status. She barely glances him over once, he responds with a glare and goes back to the phone, and then she’s handing Otabek the key and telling him they’ll find their room on the third floor. Yuri follows Otabek up the stairs and lets him open the door before rushing in ahead to use the bathroom.

The room, when he gets back, is basic. And honestly, a little threadbare. Nothing like the state of Viktor’s house. But again, the tattered appearance and slight cat smell reminds Yuri of home, and he’s all the more excited to get to bed so he can sleep and see his grandpa tomorrow.

He flops down on the bed closest to the window, still furiously trying to beat Otabek’s high score. The Kazakh drops the bags which Yuri shamelessly didn’t offer to help with.

“Yuri, do you…want a phone?” Otabek asks uncertainly.

Yuri glances at him from the corner of his eye.

“I can have one?”

“Of course,” Otabek replies with a subtle sigh of relief. “Phichit and Chris have phones. I’m sorry, I should have-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Yuri brushes, going back to the game. He tries to appear nonchalant on the outside, but inside, he thinks something might have exploded from the excitement. “You really suck at this being friends thing.”

Otabek laughs lightly. “You’ll have to teach me. And I mean it. If there’s anything you ever want, anything you want to do, you have to ask. Or at least _tell_ me. Otherwise I won’t know.”

Yuri doesn’t miss a beat. “I want an iPhone. Latest model. And a bunch of awesome cases for it.”

The Kazakh laughs again, and they converse idly as they eat the sandwiches he bought at the gas station earlier. Yuri doesn’t finish his – it’s somehow dry and soggy at the same time, and he’s pretty sure egg shouldn’t crunch. Instead, he helps himself to the last of Phichit’s brownies.

By nine, Yuri has beaten Otabek’s high score three times. By ten, he’s kicked off his shoes and tossed his hoodie aside, and is trying to work out what the hell he’s going to sleep in. Otabek brought clothes for himself, but the assumption was that Yuri would use his old clothes at his grandpa’s house. The old man still has everything, he was told. And they didn’t plan to be stopping somewhere overnight. When he turns to ask Otabek, he’s surprised to see the Kazakh pulling his leather jacket back on.

“I thought you were exhausted,” Yuri challenges, wondering where the hell the man could be going.

“I’m just going out for a cigarette,” Otabek says.

“You _smoke_?” Yuri’s voice is laced with disdain.

“Usually, no,” Otabek says, lacing up his shoes. “Viktor doesn’t allow smoking on his property, and I didn’t think you’d appreciate it in the car.”

Yuri both appreciates the gesture and silently warns Otabek not to come back in here smelling of smoke. _Isaak_ smelled of smoke. Cigarette smoke, specifically. And there is definitely a difference, because Yuri is greatly looking forward to being able to smell his grandpa’s cigars again but he knows if he so much as catches a whiff of a cigarette, he might feel a little ill. He doesn’t tell the man this – after driving Yuri more than twelve hours across the country (and a little more tomorrow), he supposes he deserves his vices. Maybe Yuri can just ignore it.

“I won’t be long,” says Otabek as he leaves.

Yuri doesn’t know if Otabek intended it to be a lie, or if he just gets caught up somewhere. But fifteen minutes pass, and Yuri wonders why he’s taking so long. Thirty minutes pass, and Yuri decides he’s going to chew Otabek out when he gets back for lying. The man talks a lot of talk about trying to be Yuri’s friend – he’s pretty sure friends don’t lie to each other.

Forty-five minutes pass, and Yuri starts to get worried. Is the Kazakh okay? Surely he wouldn’t just leave Yuri here?

A full hour goes by, and enough is enough. It doesn’t take an entire hour to smoke one cigarette. Otabek is either smoking the whole pack, or has found something better to do. Fuck him if he has. Slave or not, Otabek’s insisted in the past that he’s trying to be Yuri’s friend. As far as Yuri knows, friends don’t abandon each other when they’re bored out of their skull and anxious.

He jumps to his feet and zips his hoodie all the way up until the cool metal is resting against his chin, then storms from the room. It’s a tenacious move on his part. If anyone demands to know his status and where his Master is, he could be in trouble. But as long as he keeps his head down, he should be fine.

There is no one in the lobby. Only the receptionist, looking sleepy, sits behind the desk. She pays him no mind. He doesn’t bother to rouse her attention. The freedom that comes with barging through the door on his own sends a thrill through his heart. Looking around at the streetlights, the buildings, and feeling the crisp night air bring goosebumps to his arms – Yuri has to take a moment to just experience it. Because he’s alone. He’s out here alone.

It feels far more freeing than being in the car did.

He glances left and right, but Otabek is nowhere to be found. There are voices, however, coming from the little alley beside the building, so he makes his way around the corner to see if any of them are Otabek. It’s hard to tell in the dark, so he inches closer.

Three Russian men are standing talking. One of them is smoking, the other is sipping on a bottle of beer. The three of them pause and turn his way as he approaches, and it’s then that he realises none of them are Otabek. Yuri groans. He’ll go back to the room and wait, but the second Otabek returns he’s getting an earful.

Frustrated, he turns to head back out of the alley.

“Hey, Princess,” one of the men calls after him. “You looking for someone?”

Yuri bristles but says nothing. He’s not about to get into any altercation with someone in an alley. Even _if_ they’re daring to call him that. He’d rather save his energy for chewing Otabek out whenever the Kazakh chooses to come back.

“Aw, Baby, don’t be like that, I was just trying to be friendly.”

 _Sure you were_ , Yuri thinks, but as he thinks it, he hears the unmistakeable sound of footsteps. Following him.

“Why don’t you come with us?” the same voice offers, but it’s not friendly in any way. Yuri can hear the dark promise under the polite words. His mind would recognise danger anywhere. “We’ll help you find them.”

He walks faster. If he engages, it’ll make things worse. As soon as he’s back inside the bed-and-breakfast, they’ll back off, and Yuri can sit in stony silence as he waits for Otabek to come back.

A hand latches on just above his elbow. He is yanked backwards.

“Bitch, I’m talking to you!”

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Yuri snarls without hesitation. He’s not a slave any more. No one is allowed to put their hands on him without his permission.

“Oh, shit,” one of them says with a laugh. “It’s a _guy_.”

“Maybe this _guy_ needs to be taught some respect,” says the one holding his arm.

Yuri wastes no time thinking about the consequences as he twists and sinks his teeth into the fingers tight around his arm. The male yelps and lets him go. Yuri stumbles back, bumping into something. Before he can turn to bite anyone else, punch, kick, scream, anything, someone’s arms come under his armpits, forcing the limbs up into an awkward and slightly painful position. He feels fingers lock at the back of his neck.

No amount of struggling gets him free.

His heart is starting to quicken now, pounding against his ribcage. A cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck. When the male behind him shoves his knee forward, his thigh grinding almost painfully against Yuri’s crotch and not letting him close his legs, Yuri lets out an involuntary shout. He instinctively goes up on his toes to ease the pressure.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, Princess,” the third man sings. “Ivan’s pissed.”

Yuri tries to lift his foot and kick the one holding him, but the man flexes and the sharp pain that shoots through Yuri’s arms and back has him crying out and dropping his foot back to the ground. As he does, _Ivan_ tears his attention away from his marked fingers and trains his eyes on Yuri.

“You stupid little fuck,” Ivan growls, storming towards him. There is nowhere Yuri can go, so he tries to look fierce. “I was trying to be nice. I’ll make you regret biting me.”

The next thing that comes to mind is to scream, so Yuri opens his mouth and sucks in a breath.

Something cold and sharp presses against his neck.

“You make a fucking sound, and you’re dead, bitch,” he warns. His eyes drift down to Yuri’s lips, and Yuri’s entire body goes cold because he _knows_ that look. “He could almost pass for a woman. Wonder if he moans like one too.”

“Let go of me, you fucker,” Yuri spits out. No way he’s going to sit here and take this. He _can’t_ let it happen again, he can’t, he can’t.

Ivan’s eyes narrow in the darkness, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches for the zipper on Yuri’s hoodie and tugs it all the way down, then his cold hand slips under his t-shirt and rubs at his waist. Yuri shivers.

“So soft...” the man mumbles.

Yuri is about to snarl something vicious at him, but then he grabs the hem of Yuri’s t-shirt in both hands, and in one sharp movement, he’s torn it right up the middle. A shocked gasp leaves Yuri’s lips as the freezing air hits his now naked torso. When a thumb grazes firmly over his nipple, Yuri bites his tongue to stop himself from screaming, remembering the sharp blade of the knife.

And then – oh, God – Yuri can feel his hand. Palming, rubbing, insistently feeling Yuri through his jeans, and though the touch is far from painful, it’s disgusting. Yuri blanches. Nausea settles in his stomach and threatens to empty the organ of its contents. This man, this _stranger_ , continues groping him. The man behind him rocks his leg subtly. The third one meanders closer, and suddenly he’s bending down and locking his hot mouth over Yuri’s other nipple, sucking, biting, licking.

The noises Yuri makes are not sounds of pleasure.

“S-Stop,” he bites out. His voice is small. “Don’t-”

Teeth clamp down on his sensitive nipple, and he yelps in pain.

This can’t be happening. Not again. He can’t be getting groped in an alley beside a cheap hotel. He can’t _let_ this happen.

Otabek – where the fuck is Otabek? This wouldn’t be happening if he didn’t take so long to smoke his fucking cigarette. The Kazakh is going to hear from Yuri later.

“Come on,” Ivan grunts. “Get hard.”

Yuri doesn’t even have to try not to. There’s nothing remotely pleasurable about the touch.

“Not a chance in hell I’m getting hard for you,” Yuri hisses, but his voice shakes hard.

“I don’t _need_ to make you like what I’m going to do to you,” the male responds. “I’m being nice, and you’re being so uncooperative.”

“You’re a sick freak who can’t get laid so you need your friends to help you catch someone to fuck,” Yuri snaps right back. The man’s hands have stopped their ministrations, and the mouth on his chest has pulled back. That fuels Yuri on. “You’ve got an ugly face, a tiny dick, and you couldn’t make me hard if you pumped me full of Viagra and kept at it for hours.”

The harsh comments spill from Yuri’s lips as easily as he draws breath despite the terror whirling in his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it’s a terrible idea to goad these men when there are three of them (plus one knife) against one Yuri. Checking himself doesn’t enter his mind until after the damage is done.

“Let him go,” Ivan commands.

Yuri doesn’t see the raised hand until a split second before it makes contact with his face. Pain explodes across his cheek and jaw bones – fuck, if nothing is broken, it’ll be a miracle. He shouts in pain as the force of the blow sends him sprawling on the ground, skidding and scraping the skin of his elbows.

The world spins. He can’t get control of his arms to push himself back to his feet. All breath has been blown completely from his lungs.

There’s a shadow looming over him. It takes Yuri a second to even remember what’s going on. A foot nudges his throbbing cheek.

“How about I let you do the measuring for yourself, Princess?” Ivan offers, his voice with a hard edge to it now. Yuri must black out for a second, because he blinks and this stranger’s weight is on his chest, and his knees are pinning Yuri’s arms to the ground, and if Yuri tilts his head forward, his lips will brush against the man’s clothed crotch. “We’ll see how confident you are with my ‘tiny dick’ down _your_ tiny throat.”

Panic engulfs him. This fucker has no right. Not like Isaak did. He can’t do this. Not again. Please, not again. He’s not supposed to be a slave any more, this shit isn’t supposed to happen. Why is it happening again?

Yuri kicks his legs, and when that doesn’t work he plants his feet on the ground and bucks wildly, but it has almost no effect on the Russian man sitting on his chest. His fingers scramble for purchase, but they only find the freezing concrete floor, and it hurts but he doesn’t stop because he’d rather be doing something than nothing. Ivan slips his pants down past his hips so Yuri gets a perfect view, even in the dark, of his half-hard member tucked inside his underwear.

The sight of it makes Yuri lose himself completely.

He thrashes, shakes his head, kicks his legs; he’s ashamed when hot tears start to collect in his eyes and tremulous pleading tumbles from his mouth as naturally as the insults did. Ivan makes some amused comment, but Yuri doesn’t really hear it. He’s forgotten about the knife and the threat – in fact, he’s not even sure Ivan still has the knife in his grasp. But he can’t scream. He can’t. All he can think about is Isaak and his head banging against the wall as his old Master forced himself into his mouth and made him choke. Screaming wouldn’t have done any good then. Screaming won’t do any good now.

A rough hand, fisting in his hair and dragging his head up. His nose, bumping lightly against a hardening cock still hidden in form-fitting boxers. A hissed command, the voice filled with smugness and triumph. He’s helpless. Not in control. He’s never been in control, it was all a lie because he’s always going to be a slave and this is all he’ll ever be worth-

He can’t breathe. The weight on his chest is too much, and he can’t breathe- can’t do this again please just someone make it stop get him off don’t let him do it please he’s sorry he’ll behave just please don’t-

“Hey!”

Those unkind hands pause, one of them still halfway to freeing its owner’s cock from the underwear. Yuri barely registers that everything has paused. He lets out a quiet sob anyway.

“Get off him,” a hard voice demands.

“Go find your own twink to fuck.”

“I’m not _asking_.”

Yuri hears rustling and a faint click. Two male voices yelp in surprise. The owners mutter something and scurry off, but that weight is still heavy on Yuri’s chest. Please, please just go away, get off, stop-

“What, you think waving that plastic toy around is gonna stop me?” The voice – Ivan, not Isaak, Yuri realises – laughs. “Come on, man, he’s got more than one hole. We can share.”

“You have three seconds to get the fuck off him, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”

Otabek. That’s Otabek, Yuri vaguely recognises. He came outside to look for Otabek. This creep on top of him is some nobody named Ivan – it’s _not_ Isaak. This stranger has no power over Yuri whatsoever. He’s not even restraining him properly any more. Yuri’s right arm is free because Ivan has twisted his body to better look at the approaching Kazakh.

Yuri glances up through his tears at Otabek only for long enough to note the gun held steady in his hand and trained on Ivan. Then he turns back to Ivan, glaring, and sees his opening. He still doesn’t quite feel like he’s in the moment, but he wastes not a second in reaching up with his free hand, grabbing his would-be-rapist’s balls, and squeezing with all his might.

The Russian positively _howls_. He immediately jerks back, but only lands awkwardly on Yuri’s legs because Yuri does _not_ let go. There’s enough room to let Yuri sit up, and sit up he does so that he can twist and tug and crush mercilessly because fuck him, fuck him, and fuck everyone like him. Never again will Yuri let anyone who tries to hurt him get away with it. He hates that he has a pretty mouth. All it seems to do is entice people. People like Isaak who are brutal and unforgiving, and people like this desperate sicko who’ll jump at any chance they can get. Nobody has any fucking right to touch him. Nobody.

All the screaming and the pleading falls on deaf ears. But then gentle fingers tap his shoulder. Holding him and barely pulling, but it’s enough to send Yuri’s mind back into overdrive completely, so he lets go of the genitals he’s intent on crushing and whirls round, ready to hit the owner of this new hand as hard as he can.

He is stopped. His offending fist is caught gently. It takes him a moment to recogise he’s staring up into Otabek’s eyes, wide with fear, on a face twisted with worry. Yuri falters. Behind him, he hears Ivan scramble away.

“Yuri,” Otabek says. He’s never heard the man speak so softly. “Yuri, are you with me?”

Yuri pulls his arm out of the Kazakh’s grasp.

“Wh-Where were you?” he asks, and fuck, his voice cracks a little at the end there. “It doesn’t t-take an hour to have a smoke.”

“You came out looking for me?” Otabek asks. “Oh, Yuri, I’m so sorry. There was this woman, and she kept-”

“You mean I almost- _he_ almost…because you were with a _woman_?” Yuri asks, a hollow laugh bubbling in his throat.

It’s not Otabek’s fault. The Kazakh could never have known this would happen. Yuri feels better for having someone to blame, though he can’t seem to bring himself to get angry about it really.

“I-”

Yuri shakes his head. The movement prompts more tears to spill. “It was like being right back there with Isaak,” he says, though why he says it is beyond him. “I was- I was-”

Scared. Yuri was scared. Yuri still _is_ scared. And a lot more things. He can’t bring himself to admit it out loud.

“Yuri, you’re shivering,” Otabek notes. “Let’s go back inside, okay?”

They both glance down at Yuri’s bare chest, and Yuri remembers for the first time that Ivan tore his t-shirt open. Feeling more embarrassed than he ever thought he _could_ feel, Yuri fumbles to zip his hoodie back up and get to his feet. He’s insanely shaky. Otabek doesn’t ask if he can help – Yuri would tell him to piss off anyway – but instead, he wraps his own trembling arm around Yuri’s shoulders and walks him back into the warmth.

Yuri wonders if he imagined that gun.

“You can borrow one of my shirts,” Otabek says when they re-enter their room.

The Kazakh leaves him and disappears into the bathroom where Yuri hears the sound of the tap running. Increasingly numb in a way that’s not really physical, he sheds himself of his clothes and digs through Otabek’s bag to pull out a t-shirt. It’s khaki green in colour, and so big on him that Yuri’s boxers barely peek out from under the hem. It somehow leaves him feeling exposed. Yuri doesn’t know if he cares.

He hurts. His face hurts, his arms hurt, his head hurts. Even his nipple is aching painfully from how hard it was bitten. His body won’t stop shaking. He wills it to calm down – he’s fine now. Safe in a hotel room with Otabek. It wasn’t Isaak all over again. He’s fine. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he sits on his bed and touches his cheek gingerly.

Otabek comes back into the room, carrying a damp facecloth in his hand. He is careful but deliberate in his approach.

“Is it okay if I sit next to you?” he asks.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile,” Yuri snaps. It lacks the spark it should.

Otabek sits. “How bad are you hurt? Is anything broken?”

“Don’t know,” Yuri replies. “I don’t think so. But it…it really hurts,” he admits quietly.

“Let me see.”

Yuri can’t look Otabek in the eye, but he turns his face to the man and feels a gentle thumb sweep the left side of his face. He winces. Otabek’s hands linger for half a second before he pulls them back and hands Yuri the facecloth. It’s damp with freezing cold water.

“Put that on it,” he suggests. “I don’t have any ice, but that should help with some of the swelling.”

“He hit me really fucking hard,” Yuri blurts out as he presses the icy flannel to his face. “Because I told him he had a tiny dick. He called me _Princess_.”

Otabek doesn’t say anything for a second. “I bet a princess wouldn’t have tried to rip his balls off.”

That makes Yuri smile a little.

“Yuri, I really am sorry,” Otabek says. “I’d never have been able to forgive myself if I’d been even one second later than what I was.”

“You’ll just have to buy me lots of shit in Moscow to make up for it.” Yuri tries to sound teasing, but his tone is flat.

Silence falls between them again. Yuri gets the impression that Otabek is trying to figure out what to say so that he won’t spur another episode like what happened yesterday in the conservatory. Frankly, he doesn’t think he has the energy for something like that again.

“It’s late,” the Kazakh decides on. “We should sleep so we’re not late for your grandpa tomorrow.”

Yuri nods. Otabek makes his way to his own bed as Yuri settles into his, rolling away from the man to face the window and drawing the blankets up to his shoulders.

“Yuri,” Otabek whispers. “I know you’re not okay. And maybe you don’t want to talk about it right now. But I’m here if you need me, okay? And I promise I’m never going to let anything like that happen again.”

When Yuri doesn’t answer, not knowing what to say, Otabek bids him goodnight. Yuri curls himself into a tight ball beneath the blankets and tries to remember how Otabek once told him he has the eyes of a soldier. Soldiers are strong. Yuri just crushed his assailant’s balls in one hand. Made him cry and beg like he made Yuri do. That seems pretty strong to him.

But why doesn’t he _feel_ strong?

He’s so exhausted, so he tries not to think about that. Instead, he closes his eyes and forces himself to remember what he’s doing tomorrow. He thinks about his grandpa, pirozhki, and Potya, and hopes that’s what he’ll dream about when he finally falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that was a big chapter and an intense ending, so I'll try to keep this short! I wouldn't like anyone to think I threw this thing with Yuri in for shock factor, or to bring Yuri and Otabek closer - there is actually a solid reason it's in there! It will become clear when we're back with Yuri and Otabek after the next two chapters. Please continue to have faith in me! I'd like to think some of you picked up on my barely-there clues about it :)
> 
> Also, does anyone want to applaud Otabek for being the only one in this story to actually SAY that he's gay?
> 
> REMINDERS: my Tumblr is frilly-axolotl and if you follow me there, you'll sometimes see announcements and info posts on why an update is taking so long, or even previews of the chapters to come! I only check it once every few days, but you can interact with me there, ask questions, etc :)
> 
> Also BluSkates has ONCE AGAIN gifted me with a fic! I'll put a little list of the fics here! All these stories are stories based on the Six Kinds of Love universe, and you will all definitely enjoy them!
> 
> He's Just So Phichity... - http://archiveofourown.org/works/10709214  
> A short thing featuring BluSkates' take on how Phichit came to live with Viktor (posted before I officially explained it)
> 
> Overly Dramatic Optometrist - http://archiveofourown.org/works/10764366  
> A hilarious tongue-in-cheek story about Yuuri going to get those glasses (don't worry, next chapter :P)
> 
> Christophe Giacometti, Yuri Whisperer - http://archiveofourown.org/works/10841133  
> A short and feelsy story featuring Chris, Yuri, and Chris' cat <3
> 
> How NOT to Make Pirozhki - http://archiveofourown.org/works/11097315  
> Yuri and Otabek get together to make pirozhki. It's surprisingly poignant and I loved it.


	16. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Yurio gone for a few days, Yuuri feels a little lost. Viktor tries to give him direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am terribly sorry about the length of time it took me to update this! I hope the next chapter will be out sooner, but I can't promise anything. I hope you all know that even if it takes me several weeks to get a new chapter out, I have no plans to abandon this fic ever!
> 
> Much thanks to BluSkates who helped me figure out what should really have been going on in this chapter. I hope I didn't disappoint!
> 
> Content warnings: mild references to past ick, some unhealthy thought processes, and slight cat-on-dog violence.
> 
> COMPLETELY UNEDITED

**Yuuri**

Yuuri watches the car roll lazily out of the garage with a sense of dejection heavy on his chest. And honestly, he doesn’t know why. He tries not to believe it’s because he selfishly doesn’t want Yurio to go – without the Russian here, Yuuri can’t make sure he’s safe, and he doesn’t have someone he knows he can trust if he needs support. If there’s one thing Yuuri _does_ know for certain, it’s that Yurio helps keep him settled and grounded. Having the blond boy gone for an unspecified amount of time is…nerve-wracking, to say the least.

So the black car disappears from view and Yuuri stands there in his soft pyjamas wondering what to do now. Phichit says he’s going back to bed for a few hours, and Chris none-too-discreetly decides to do the same. The pair of them head off together, leaving Yuuri standing in the chilly garage with Viktor and Makkachin, feeling suddenly even less sure of himself.

He wonders if he should just go back to bed: he didn’t get much sleep last night. But he imagines climbing back into bed only to continue tossing and turning like he did before. No, there’s no point in that. If he gets tired later, he supposes he can have a nap.

For now, though, he knows he has to get out of Viktor’s company. The Russian is just standing there looking as awkward as Yuuri feels. Yuuri glances at him, offers a quick bow – something he’s not done since he was home in Japan – and hurries out of the garage. Makkachin follows him, his claws tapping on the hard floor as Yuuri makes his way back into the main house via the utility room attached to the kitchen.

His heart begins to pound as he realises he’s quite rudely just blown Viktor off without giving him a chance to speak. The man doesn’t come after him, though. Or at least, Yuuri doesn’t see him as he finds himself standing in the middle of the foyer staring at a panel on the wall.

Honestly, he’s not really sure what he and Yurio have been doing for the past couple of weeks, but having the small Russian boy there at least gives him purpose. Something to focus on. Now…he kind of doesn’t know what to do. Makkachin looks up at him expectantly. He seriously contemplates, for a whole second, asking the dog for his opinion.

With his bare feet getting cold on this flooring, Yuuri decides to at least search for something. He walks with purpose into the family room. When he gets there, however, he stands just inside the doorway and looks around at everything inside with a sense of nothingness inside him. There’s a TV with more channels than Yuuri could ever comprehend, movies stacked up inside the cabinet against the wall, magazines scattered on the coffee table. Chris’ cat is curled up on the arm of the corner sofa, and when Makkachin spots her, he bounds over excitedly. Yuuri watches the cat leap to her feet, hairs raised and spine curved. He can hear the hiss building in her throat, but apparently Makkachin can’t, because the dog ambles right up to her and presses his wet nose against her. Snowflake swipes at the poodle’s nose viciously. When Makkachin doesn’t back off, Yuuri can’t help a tiny smile – she isn’t even using her claws. The cat glares at him, reproach shining in her blue eyes, before scurrying out of the room. Makkachin follows her with a wagging tail and a lolling tongue.

Yuuri spares the family room one final glance before going back out and heading for the stairs. There’s a library up here somewhere. He’s never really been an avid reader, but it’ll be something to do while he waits. Waits for what, he doesn’t know exactly. He also doesn’t know how he’ll manage to read without his glasses, but it’s worth a try.

Unsure about which door actually leads to the library, he takes a rather terrifying gamble on the one that’s slightly ajar.

He’s never been in this room before. It’s not the library, that’s for sure. The space is wide and open, with a bar against the left wall, and a slightly raised platform at the far end of the room where Yuuri can see sound equipment. Surely, though, that thing standing in the centre of the platform isn’t a pole. His vision isn’t that bad when he’s in close proximity to whatever he’s looking at, but writing and anything too far away becomes a mass of blurry shapes. Curiously, he approaches the platform and reaches out to touch what can’t possibly be a shining silver pole.

It is. It _is_ a shining silver pole. He grips it and steps around experimentally, finding that it rotates with him. This must be where Chris practises, he thinks. He wonders what got him into such an art in the first place. Viktor would never have forced it on him – that much he’s sure of. It was obviously Chris’ idea. Yuuri tries to figure out if the pole-dancing made Chris so confident, or if he built it up on his own and eventually became so enough to want to do it.

With a sigh that turns into a hum, he leaves the room and makes his way into the library. It’s a cosy room with a desk pushed up against the wall and an ancient-looking computer sitting on top. The machine doesn’t look like it’s been turned on in years.

Books are stuffed into every built-in shelf, and piled in corners and on surfaces. He definitely can’t read properly without his glasses, but he recognises Russian letters when he sees them. While most of the titles are in English – and therefore, probably the contents too – he doesn’t see the point in trying. Unless it’s a book for a five-year-old with large print and bright pictures, he won’t manage.

Despite himself, Yuuri trails his fingers across the spines and pulls one out at random. The writing on the cover is far too fancy for him to even guess at what it’s called, but he flips it open anyway and scans the blurry black lines, tracing them with his fingertips as if that will help him understand. It’ll be nice to see again, he thinks. It’ll be nice to be able to read, to watch Russian movies with Yurio. For the first time since he met the younger boy, he’ll be able to see him clearly. He’ll be able to see _everyone._

He’ll be able to see the individual hairs that make up Chris’ beard. The tiny fingers that belong to Phichit’s hamsters. All the individual lines that become Yurio’s face when he scowls. The sharpness of Otabek’s expressions. The depth of the blue in Viktor’s eyes. But for now, he’s half-blind in territory that’s still so unfamiliar.

He puts the book back.

With newfound yet unfounded nervousness, he tiptoes carefully back downstairs and finds himself standing outside the closed door to Yurio’s bedroom. It’s silly. _He’s_ silly. But he pushes the door open and goes in anyway. Yurio would probably throw a tantrum if he learned about this. Yuuri thinks he won’t tell him.

As he steps over the threshold, Yurio’s smell hits him. It doesn’t smell like anything in particular. Just Yurio, and the slight tang of apples from his soap. The boy hasn’t even been gone an hour, and Yuuri’s already pining for him. How pathetic. That’s what Isaak would say. Pathetic and pitiful and weak.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Yuuri is sitting on the sill of Yurio’s window, knees drawn gently to his chest and face turned to the rising sun. It’s the first time he’s seen the sunrise in a long time. All pinks and vivid oranges and pale blues and yellows, slight green, disturbed only clouds that look dark but aren’t. This doesn’t feel weak. This feels strong. Isaak never even let him near a window. Now he can look out a window all day if he wants to, or he can confine himself to his bed if he’d rather. A bed as opposed to a single pillow and a large blanket for Yuuri and Yurio both, thrown haphazardly into the corner of a sparsely furnished room. _His_ bed as opposed to one that belongs to his Masters, rigged with restraints to force him to remain confined. It’s his choice to get up or stay in bed. His choice.

Just like it was his choice to get into Isaak’s and Matvei’s bed in the first place. His choice to put himself through the extra abuse. How can the people in this house talk about what he’s “been through” when he did it all to himself? How can anyone feel sorry for him, or be kind, when it’s really all his fau-?

“Yuuri.”

He jumps, his mind suddenly going blank as he glances around to see Viktor standing in the doorway.

“Don’t worry about Yurio,” Viktor says. “He’s in very good hands with Otabek. He’ll keep us updated until the moment they get back.”

Yuuri nods mutely. Truthfully, he’s not too worried about Yurio. Not any more.

“Could I come in?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri nods again.

As Viktor enters and takes careful steps closer, Yuuri can see him fiddling with something that he hides none-too-discreetly behind his back. As he sits on the sill by Yuuri’s feet, he hides it down by his side.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says carefully. “Before your eye appointment, we should talk.”

Yuuri tenses despite his best efforts not to. He has a funny feeling he knows what’s coming. It’s something he’s been quietly dreading for a while now.

“Given your… I mean, because you are… Th-The law requires-”

“I have to wear a collar.”

His words startle them both. Viktor looks up at Yuuri as if he’s surprised he’s spoken.

“I know the law,” Yuuri goes on. His voice is painfully flat. “I…I know how it works h-here.”

Viktor doesn’t comment on the tremble in his voice, but he does seem just a tiny bit relieved that Yuuri isn’t freaking out right now. Swallowing, the Russian man nods.

“I spoke to Chris and Phichit yesterday,” he says quietly. “After Otabek came to ask me if he could take Yurio to Moscow. I thought that if Yurio couldn’t come with us, maybe you would feel better if Chris and Phichit came instead? They’ve been to St. Petersburg many times with me, so they’re very familiar with where the law allows them to go and what it allows them to do. And I thought that…I thought you might feel more comfortable if you weren’t the only one wearing a-a…”

There’s something laughable about how much Viktor struggles to get the word out. So laughable that Yuuri actually smiles, but when he looks at Viktor, he makes it seem thankful. And it _is_. He’s still not so sure about Chris, but he knows Phichit will help make everything smoother for him.

“I’d like it if they came with us,” Yuuri says in a small voice. “Th-Thank you.”

A silence befalls them for a moment.

“I… Yuuri, I have your- the…collar…here.”

His heart skips a beat.

“I thought it might be best to familiarise yourself with it before it actually has to go on.”

“Why?” Yuuri snaps suddenly. “A collar’s a collar. I know what they look like, and I know what they feel like.”

Viktor visibly recoils a bit, his eyes widening in shock. Yuuri feels like his blood turns to ice in that instant. He’s never snapped back at anyone since being taken.

“I-I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I-I didn’t m-mean t-”

“No, Yuuri, you’re right,” Viktor says with a shake of his head. “ _I’m_ sorry. Would you…prefer if I kept it until the day of your appointment?”

Yes. Yuuri would prefer if he never has to see another collar except Makkachin’s in his life. But he knows that’s never going to be the case. He has only three days, including today, to acquaint himself with the idea that he’s going to have another one of those things around his neck.

He shakes his head, and tentatively holds out his hand.

Viktor, just as apprehensive, lifts the collar hidden at his side and places it into Yuuri’s waiting palm.

It’s…soft. And understated. A gentle black in colour, clearly made of expensive leather with a silky material lining the inside, and with a small silver buckle at one end to fix it in place. It’s thin. Something that won’t rub uncomfortably against his skin that’s sensitive from the months of abuse. Something that is narrow in diameter, but lengthy so that it doesn’t have to be strapped flush against his throat like the last collar did. He’ll be able to hide it under his clothes easily.

And yet it feels heavy and cold in his hand as if it’s made of iron. Because like he said before, a collar is a collar. No matter how soft and understated it is, it’s still a mark of his status as a slave, he still doesn’t want to wear it, and most of all, he doesn’t want anyone to _see_ him wearing it. The embarrassment might just kill him. He could wear it for Isaak and Matvei. He learned early how to feel no shame. But out there on the streets where hundreds will see and know and imagine-

“Yuuri?” Viktor pushes when Yuuri’s hand starts to shake.

“I know th-the law,” Yuuri says quietly. “I just…”

He swallows. It feels somehow shameful to even think about talking about it. Why should it matter how others will see and treat him? A slave only on paper, Viktor says, but a slave nonetheless. His opinions don’t matter. His feelings don’t matter. Having been in servitude for so long, he should already be used to dealing with the public as a slave. But he’s not. He wonders if that’s a disservice or a gift.

“Yes?” Viktor prompts.

“I-I’ve never worn one…in public before,” Yuuri admits. “We- They never let us out of the house.”

“You…” Viktor starts, trailing off before swallowing and trying again. “You and Yurio never left that house?”

Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s suddenly nervous and filled with the need to explain himself.

“Mas- I mean, Isa- He always said h-he didn’t want anyone to see us and think they could t-take us away,” Yuuri babbles. “He said there were people out there who would steal s-slaves. B-But we belonged only to h-him. He didn’t want anyone else to ever see us. Even when they threw parties, w-we weren’t allowed out of our room for too long.”

Viktor whispers something in Russian. Yuuri doesn’t understand it, but he swears he hears Chris’ name somewhere in there. When Yuuri jumps, Viktor’s slightly blurry face contorts into an expression of apology.

“Yuuri, I am so sorry,” Viktor says, much to Yuuri’s shock. “I had no idea you’d been so confined. I never even imagined that Yurio going to Moscow would be his first time out in so long. Would… Would you like to go out into the garden?”

Yuuri is sure his heart stops at that. He knows Yurio has been out and so always assumed he probably would be too. But working up the courage to even think about asking, planting a seed, anything that might get him out, has always been sickeningly terrifying. So instead of asking, or even vaguely mentioning anything to anyone that might clue them in, he sat on the windowsill of his room and stared out. His room is at the back of the house where he gets a perfect view of the expansive outside space.

For a house this size, there’s nothing special about the garden. It’s mostly grass covered by half melted but still frozen snow. There’s a winding brick path that splits off in different directions, but it seems mostly to be for decoration. Various shrubs and bushes are dotted about, most of them wilted with the winter and just starting to come back to life, but there is no pattern to how they are set out. There are also silly little garden ornaments scattered about – they’re just starting to become visible now that the snow is disappearing – again, without any apparent design or theme.

It's disorganised and unimpressive, but it’s _out_. It’s somewhere he knows he doesn’t have to wear a collar. He can be out, but reclusive at the same time. He can be free, but safe.

And Viktor is offering it to him.

His vision goes extra blurry as tears collect in his eyes. He sniffles. They fall. He wipes them away on his shirt sleeve before burying his face in his hands, willing himself to stop crying. It’s not a big deal. Yurio probably didn’t cry when he went out.

“Yuuri!” Viktor gasps, alarmed. Yuuri feels his gentle hand on his knee, but for some reason, he doesn’t mind. “I’m sorry, did I upset you? Do you not want to go out?”

Rapidly, Yuuri shakes his head. His voice is muffled by his hands as he speaks.

“No, no, no,” he says. “I-I do. I-I want to go out. I j-just- I’ve n-not-”

“I know it’s a lot,” Viktor says gently. His thumb sweeps over Yuuri’s knee in a manner that is meant to be comforting. It is, just a tiny little bit. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, Yuuri.”

“Y-You didn’t,” Yuuri reassures, still keeping his face hidden in his hands. He doesn’t even care that he’s crying all over that expensive leather. “I’m h-happy. I’m happy. Th-Thank you. Can…Can I really go out?”

“Yuuri, anything you want, you only have to ask and I’ll do my best to make it happen for you.”

Viktor sits with him for another few minutes until his embarrassing tears finally subside and he dares to finally look back up at the man. The Russian has a patient smile on his face as he stands, removing his hand from Yuuri’s knee.

“Why don’t you go and get dressed?” Viktor suggests. “And I’ll go get Makkachin! He’s always so energetic in the morning. He loves to play with a frisbee! I’m sure he’d love for you to throw it for him, Yuuri! And when he brings it back, he’ll crash right into you. You’ve seen Chris, he’s a very well-toned man, but Makkachin’s knocked him off his feet more than once. I think it’s not a fun outing until Makkachin’s knocked someone down!”

He can’t help it. The tiny smile comes to his lips so naturally at Viktor’s own excited one. It feels risky, but Viktor only continues to look at him with light expectation radiating from his body as he awaits Yuuri’s answer.

“It’d be nice if Makkachin came with us,” Yuuri whispers.

“ _Otlichno_!”

Once back in his own room, Yuuri drops the collar onto the bedside table. The buckle clatters against the sturdy wood. He pauses for a moment, staring at it. Something about it doesn’t seem real. He knows he’s struggling to adjust, but he’s gotten so used to not wearing one and to not _seeing_ one. His hand shakes as he presses his fingers to the front of his neck, trying to imagine it.

Viktor’s voice, excitedly calling Makkachin, echoes through the house. Yuuri shakes his head to dispel the thoughts. He can worry about the collar later. No doubt he _will_ worry about it later. For now, he has to change out of these pyjamas.

It doesn’t take him as long as it usually does to pick out clothes. Normally he’s rifling through shirt after shirt, still trying to get his head around the fact that these are his – to choose, to wear, to decide _not_ to wear. His reluctance, or rather his hesitance, is his own secret. But having the garden to look forward to, and with Viktor’s suggestion, it seems easier. And it’s not as if he doesn’t enjoy wearing clothes. He likes that he can cover himself up if he’s cold, and can strip down if he’s too hot. He likes that he can choose things with sleeves long enough to cover the fading yellow bruises on his arms when he doesn’t want to look at them. It helps that Viktor has expensive taste, he thinks. Every piece of clothing that is now Yuuri’s is soft against his skin and doesn’t stifle him at all.

One day, he’ll find a way to thank Viktor for that.

He dresses quickly in loose, comfortable clothes in shades of black and muted dark blue. The sweater he pulls over his head doesn’t scratch him at all. It’s just smooth and cosy and smells as if it’s been freshly laundered.

“You can borrow these boots,” Viktor says when he appears by the conservatory where all the shoes and coats are kept. The Russian hands the boots to him. “They belong to Chris, but hopefully they’re not too big on you.”

Makkachin leaps back and forth, tail going a mile a minute, as Yuuri and Viktor tie their laces. Yuuri finishes first, feeling oddly nostalgic for a second as he straightens up. He pulls on the navy blue jacket that he’s been told is his.

Viktor is still trying his laces, apparently struggling, although Yuuri can’t see why. He managed to tie the left one just fine.

“Yuuri, why don’t you head out with Makkachin first?” he suggests. “I’ll join you if I can ever get my shoes tied!” The Russian laughs, but stares at him expectantly, and Yuuri feels like there’s a hint he’s not quite picking up on. “Makkachin’s frisbee should be by the door.”

Yuuri swallows and nods, and Makkachin follows him into the conservatory and up to the glass sliding door, snatching up the frisbee from the coffee table in his jaws. His paws dance as he waits for Yuuri to open the door.

But Yuuri doesn’t.

Not at first.

He just stares out. _Out_. It’s right there, just beyond the glass. So close, and he’s allowed to go, and suddenly any lingering thoughts of the collar are gone from his mind because fresh air and grass and half-melted but solid snow are _right there_.

With a shaky hand, he reaches up and slides the door open. Makkachin bursts out, pushing the door with his nose because apparently Yuuri isn’t opening it fast enough. Cold air caresses his face, entices him out, and it’s so exhilarating for a second that he trips over the doorway and narrowly avoids falling flat on his face.

Makkachin is running in wild circles, barking with the frisbee still in his mouth. Yuuri takes another step forward. He’s cringing, as if any second he’s going to be dragged back in, or he’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream. But neither of those things happen. He’s still here. It’s still freezing cold. The gentle but frigid breeze is still lightly brushing over his skin and hair.

This is real.

The emotion that surges through him is something he couldn’t describe in any language if he tried. When Viktor appears at his side, a happy smile on his pale face, Yuuri weakly smiles back.

“Let’s go for a walk, Yuuri.”

So they do. Viktor tosses the frisbee for Makkachin as they go, and tells him silly little anecdotes about the garden ornaments, such as where the neon pink gnome came from. Apparently it’s Phichit’s gnome. They each have one. Chris’ gnome is completely naked save for the fig leaf covering its crotch, Viktor’s is the elderly one with the walking cane (something Chris supposedly suggested and found hilarious due to Viktor’s hair colour), and Otabek’s is the one wearing leathers and sunglasses. As the Russian babbles about getting Yuuri and Yurio their own gnomes, Yuuri notices that he’s glossed over one of them, and that there’s a patch on the brick path where it looks like one used to be but has since been moved.

He doesn’t ask. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. Listening to Viktor talk as the sun rises higher in the sky is cathartic somehow, and calming. At some point, he hands the frisbee to Yuuri, and Yuuri throws it far too gently, which makes Makkachin huff impatiently. Viktor chuckles.

“Yuuri, you can come out here any time you want, you know,” Viktor says casually after they’ve been out for what must be twenty minutes. “You don’t ever have to ask or have someone go with you. If you’d like, you can bring Makkachin.”

Yuuri nods, not quite sure how to respond.

“In the summer months, we sometimes eat outside at night,” Viktor goes on. “Chris has been pestering me for three years now to get a hot tub! He says he doesn’t understand the point of having the deck if there’s not a hot tub to go with it. You know, the ballroom upstairs didn’t have that little platform or the pole when we first moved in here. It was Chris who insisted he needed it. He pulled this face, Yuuri, how could I say no? It always raises a lot of questions at parties. My father almost had a heart attack the first time he saw Chris _use_ it at a party. But Chris said the party was boring and needed spicing up. He wasn’t wrong.” Viktor laughs. “I still don’t see why we need a hot tub, though.”

Yuuri smiles in agreement, but his mind drifts from whatever Viktor starts talking about next to home. Hot tubs aren’t the same as his family’s _onsen_. Not by a long shot. Yet the idea of sitting in steaming water, surrounded by the fresh night air and the sound of insects, ambient lights casting a warm glow over everything – it reminds him of home.

A familiar ache settles in his chest. Of course he’s happy for Yurio, who is somewhere between here and Moscow right now and on his way to see his only family. Of course when Yurio comes back, he’ll listen gladly to the stories and be excited. But there’s a barely-there bit of something not so pleasant lurking beneath the surface. Yuuri doesn’t want to call it jealousy or envy, because that makes it sound ugly. He can’t deny the feeling, though. He misses his own family so much. His parents, his sister, his friends, all of whom have no idea where he is or what happened to him. And he could never ask Viktor to do for him what Otabek is doing for Yurio. Japan is so far away: Viktor has responsibilities here.

In that moment, he almost considers asking Viktor if he can call his own family. To at least let them know he’s okay. But then the doubts come.

Yuuri doesn’t even know if calling his parents is something he _should_ do if he were able. When he thinks back on the things that have happened to him, the things that he’s willingly done, the things he’s said, the things he has allowed to happen to him… How could his family ever accept him back? How can Yuuri bring anything other than shame to the name Katsuki? How could he even talk to them without wanting the ground to swallow him up and hide him from the humiliation and the indignity?

Sometimes, he wonders how Yurio can even stand to be his friend. Sometimes, he thinks it’s a pity thing. Or maybe some non-existent obligation. After all, Yurio knows exactly what Yuuri has said and done. Surely the only reason the blond Russian boy can stand to be so friendly with Yuuri is because he feels he _has_ to be that way? Who would ever want to be friends with someone like Yuuri? Hug someone like Yuuri? Someone who is dirty and ruined and-

He jolts out of his head when he bumps into Viktor.

Startled, he glances up to see the bright pink frisbee clutched in his raised hand. He must have been about to throw it.

“S-Sorry,” Yuuri stammers.

Viktor throws the toy for Makkachin and turns to face him more fully.

“It’s all right,” he says in a quiet voice. “Were you lost in thought? I understand that this is a lot for you to take in.”

Yuuri’s cheeks turn pink. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, I-”

“Yuuri, we all get a little lost in our own head sometimes,” Viktor says kindly. After a moment of hesitation, he asks, “What were you thinking about?”

“I- My wound,” Yuuri lies. It comes so easily to someone who’s been habitually telling the truth for the last year and a half. “It never hurts any more. It must be almost completely healed. R-Right?”

Viktor doesn’t look convinced in the least, and for a moment Yuuri’s heart almost stops in his chest. Then Viktor smiles.

“Maybe so,” he supplies. “With Yurio gone for a few days, someone else will have to take care of it. Not that I’d imagine it has long left to go. I hope you don’t mind if I offer? If that makes you uncomfortable, I’m sure Chris or Phichit would-”

“I don’t mind if you do it,” Yuuri says, and it’s almost completely the truth this time.

“Excellent,” Viktor says with a smile. “Of course, this leaves me in danger.”

“It…does?” Yuuri asks.

“Of course it does!” Viktor gasps. “If I don’t do a perfect job, I’m sure Yurio would have my head when he comes back! And I really do like my head, Yuuri. Although I worry my hairline is receding a bit. Does it look bad to you, Yuuri?” The Russian man pushes his hair back out of his face. “I’ll have to show you some photos of me from when my hair was long! My hairline was much better then. Oh, I have the cutest photos of Chris and I! My hair was still long and Chris was still a teenager! He had curly hair, you know? And a baby face right up until he was nineteen! He looks nothing like his younger self, you might not even recognise him!”

They start walking again, and when Makkachin brings back the frisbee, Yuuri is the one to throw it for him. He doesn’t say much as Viktor talks once more, but that’s fine. He likes listening. Every now and then, he nods or makes some noise of acknowledgement. Once or twice, as Viktor tells him stories from his younger days, Yuuri laughs.

He gathers that Chris and Viktor have been friends for a long time, maybe even since before Chris came to live with Viktor. Viktor doesn’t tell Yuuri how they met or how their current living situation came to be, and Yuuri doesn’t ask. He knows Chris spent time serving Isaak and Matvei too. He doesn’t want to ask any questions that will turn the conversation sour, or dark. Not when Viktor seems so happy. Not when his happiness is infecting Yuuri a little too.

Viktor regales him with stories from years ago – how he got Makkachin when he was sixteen years old after a lifetime of begging his father to let him get a puppy, and how his father nearly had a stroke when Viktor came home with Yakov (his old bodyguard) and a three-month old poodle. Yuuri finds himself relaxed enough to tell Viktor about his own dog. The toy poodle called Vicchan who passed away only a couple of months before Yuuri was taken. Viktor seems genuinely saddened by the news, which for some reason, prompts Yuuri to cheer the Russian up with accounts of all the times Vicchan caused trouble or did especially cute things. His methods work a treat.

The two of them continue walking and throwing the frisbee for Makkachin. As the tag on the poodle’s collar jingles, Yuuri is reminded of the collar sitting upstairs by his bed. He still has two days before it has to go on, but again, the thought of it puts a sickening chill somewhere in his stomach.

Then Makkachin barks. Bumping the top of his head against Yuuri’s leg, he whines and vocalises until Yuuri takes the toy from his mouth and launches it into the distance.

Makkachin can wear a collar and still run about so freely, making demands of the people around him and barking happily. Granted, Makkachin is a dog and Yuuri is a human. But sometimes he feels like a dog. Or sometimes he _felt_ like a dog – not so much anymore. Isaak rather liked playing pretend. And even if they weren’t playing one of his sick games, Yuuri knows the word “bitch” in three languages. He’s been taught to follow commands and obey without question, how to beg and do tricks, how to sit quietly and not move. He’s been told exactly what he could eat and when, where he could go, what he could wear.

Here, though, things are different. He thinks he’s starting to accept and believe that. There are no games. At least, no games that make his skin crawl and nausea bubble away in his stomach. The only derogatory language he hears comes from Yurio’s practised lips. No one commands him, no one enforces unfair rules. Phichit and Chris have been out plenty of times before, collared as the law requires. He doesn’t know what their experiences were, but surely, he thinks, wearing a collar out there won’t be much different from _not_ wearing one in here. Yuuri doesn’t think Viktor would ever change his attitude just because they are out in public. He seems too genuine for that.

So what’s the problem, Yuuri wonders. Maybe it won’t be such a big deal after all. If Chris and Phichit can wear them, so can he. If Makkachin can wear one, so can he.

“Yuuri, are you hungry? I think Phichit might be up making breakfast.”

He glances up in Viktor’s direction.

“I’d love some breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've moving some kind of way with Yuuri :P Some might call it progress. It's early days, still. Did anyone notice the thing with the gnomes? :)
> 
> Next chapter, we're heading into St. Petersburg to get GLASSES.
> 
> Reminder that I am frilly-axolotl on Tumblr where you can follow me for updates on why a chapter might be taking so long, sneak previews, and extra info! There's one super long post in there already giving the linear story about how Chris came to be with Viktor! Search the "six kinds of love" tag on my blog to find it. https://frilly-axolotl.tumblr.com/
> 
> Now let me take the time to share some fics with you that people have written for me! Each of these is based in the Six Kinds of Love universe, and either adds something to the story, or is just a fantastic writer's interpretation of certain aspects. They all come HIGHLY recommended by me, so PLEASE read them and leave comments when you get the chance!
> 
> He's Just So Phichity... by BluSkates  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10709214  
> A short piece featuring the writer's idea of how Phichit came to live with Viktor. Includes a Gameboy.
> 
> Overly Dramatic Optometrist by BluSkates  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10764366  
> An absolutely hysterical piece detailing the day of Yuuri's eye appointment.
> 
> Christophe Giacometti, Yuri Whisperer by BluSkates  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10841133  
> A charming and emotional short piece in which Chris and Yuri bond a little over their mutual love of cats.
> 
> How NOT to Make Pirozhki by BluSkates  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11097315  
> Yuri forces Otabek to help him make pirozhki before he goes to see his grandpa. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
> 
> All Cats Know by BluSkates  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11253609  
> An incredibly poignant and effective story from Chris' cat's point of view as the cat watches everything that goes on in the house. Set the morning Yuri leaves for Moscow, it's powerful and emotional.
> 
> These Nights by IzzyBee92  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11351880  
> A lovely Chris/Phichit thing, set the day the Yuris are brought to Viktor, showing how Chris struggles with seeing his old Masters again and how much Chris and Phichit care about each other.
> 
> ...and you'll never be free of me. by BluSkates  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/11363259  
> A very dark but powerful and insightful piece from Isaak's point of view. Set after the Yuris have left, but dips back into when they were there, and when Chris was there. Nothing is graphic, so I highly encourage you all to read it before the next chapter!


	17. Eyes Wide Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri tries to come to terms with how he feels about the collar, and then it's time to finally get his glasses!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so torn about splitting this chapter in half, but in the end it worked out better that way. There will be more of Yuuri in St. Petersburg! Thanks to BluSkates for her help on this chapter!
> 
> Content warnings: panic attacks, unhealthy thought processes. 
> 
> This chapter is very minimally edited, and I know it's riddled with mistakes, but I woke up this morning with a migraine, so you're all getting it as it comes XD I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless!

**Yuuri**

 

_Breathe in._

_Try not to freak out._

_Breathe out._

_Freak out a little._

Yuuri stares down at the understated black collar in his hands. He can’t bring himself to put it on. He feels a little sick. Actually, he feels a lot sick. But it’s just a collar. A tiny one. No one will even see it hiding under a loose scarf. He’s worn one before, for well over a year. One that was far bigger and tighter and _real_. What’s the problem?

There is no problem. That’s what Yuuri tells himself. He’s being silly. Everyone is waiting for him downstairs. Everyone’s going out because of him. Because of his glasses. Viktor is driving, paying, indulging – all for him. He needs to stop being a baby and just put the thing on. _Makkachin_ can wear a collar, for God’s sake. Chris’ cat doesn’t wear one, but Yuuri thinks Chris would have to be a fool to try to make her.

As he clenches his fingers around the soft leather and lifts it, he chickens out and drops it in his lap. All he can see when he closes his eyes are faces with judgemental stares and sneers and harsh words. He didn’t give a whole lot of thought to how others might treat him in St. Petersburg before, but now that the experience is imminent, it pesters him. He doesn’t know how he’ll cope with that. Out in public where he can’t just retreat until he feels better. Out in public where he has no one to be fighting for except himself.

He doesn’t know if he can fight for himself.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_They’re all waiting_.

That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is getting this thin leather strap around his neck so they can leave. Phichit’s been showing him videos of white Siberian dwarf hamsters online relentlessly for the past two days. Yuuri knows he wants one to add to his collection: he asked Yuuri what he thought would be a good name for a hamster like that, and that Chris suggested outlandish French names like Dominique and Angelique and Sebastienne. Yuuri, shyly but sarcastically, offered Napoleon, to which Phichit burst into a fit of giggles and said he agreed wholeheartedly.

Phichit absolutely wants a new hamster. And the longer Yuuri sits here worrying and sweating and stalling, the longer the bright Thai man has to wait.

Hands shaking and heart pounding, Yuuri lifts the collar once more. He doesn’t drop it this time. The leather brushes over his hair – hair that’s definitely in need of a cut – as he loops it behind his neck, letting it sit there against his skin for just a moment. Oh God, no, that doesn’t feel comfortable at all. He thought it wouldn’t feel so bad. He thought it would be as soft against his neck as it is against his fingers. Oh God, oh God-

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Slower._

_In._

_Out._

It’s fine. It’s not painful. It _is_ soft. It’s like silk. Everything is okay. It was just the shock, that’s all. He’s okay.

With fumbling fingers, he threads one end of the collar through the small silver buckle. His very fingertips are sweating. He struggles to push the clip through one of the tiny holes in the strap. Once he manages, he lets the collar sit there, flush against the skin of his clavicle instead of his neck. A wave of calm washes over him in an instant.

Calm. Secure. Safe.

 _That’s better_.

Wait.

No.

No, it’s _not_ better.

Having this thing – this mark of his status, this proof of him being property – around his neck is not better. None of this is better. This is wrong. So why does it feel _right_? Why does he feel suddenly safer and more sure of himself?

The next wave isn’t one of calm.

It’s a symbol of his servitude hanging on his body and it makes him feel _better_. No. That’s sickening. That’s wrong. He really is a slave. This whole time, everything’s been a game. He isn’t free in this house. He never will be. Viktor. Viktor must have done this on purpose. To show him. Show him that he needs the collar. To remind him of his place. To function. That’s why he’s been struggling. Because he didn’t have the collar. He didn’t have the stability.

But no, that’s not right! This can’t be right. It feels wrong that it feels right. There’s no way. No way.

It hurts.

Viktor lied.

No, Viktor can’t have lied. He’s honest. He’s kind. His heart is as big as his smile. Yuuri sees it peek through though the Russian tries to hide it. He only has to wear the collar while they’re out. He can take it off as soon as they’re home.

Home.

When did this place become his home? _Is_ this his home? Isaak called his house their home.

Isaak.

Resentment.

That sick, evil bastard. This is his fault. Months upon months of violence and abuse and sheer torture, all with that collar, to remind him, to condition him.

But how can Yuuri possibly call it abuse? It was violent, yes. It was torturous, yes. But Masters can’t abuse their slaves. Slaves can’t be abused. Slaves are property. Yuuri is property. He can’t complain. Of course it feels better with the collar on. This is how things are supposed to be. This is what he’s been taught.

This is how things are _supposed_ to be.

Oh God.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

He can’t. He can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t do anything. Can’t function without a collar. Can’t function with one.

Phichit lied. It’ll never get better. Never ever- how can it?

Can’t breathe.

Come on, Yuuri, breathe. Phichit wants his hamster. Yurio wants him to pick non-dorky glasses.

But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t-

Yuuri.

He can’t-

_Yuuri, come on._

No-

Breathe in and out. Slowly.

He can’t-

“Yuuri.”

Oh God, is that someone’s voice? Is someone trying to speak to him?

“Yuuri.”

There’s something else. A muffled, far away phrase that he doesn’t catch. Frantically, Yuuri searches for the voice. But he can’t see anything. He doesn’t even know where he is.

He feels something. On his hand. Hands. Both of them. Lifting. Squeezing.

Yuuri finds a pair of blurry hazel eyes in the darkness and fights to keep them in focus. They crinkle slightly. A smile. Encouragement.

“That’s it,” the voice says. Another gentle squeeze around his hands. “Come back to me. Breathe slowly. You’re doing well.”

Yuuri tries. The voice guides him through it. It’s Chris. When did Chris get here?

The man talks him out of the darkness, the panic, the stifling feeling of wrongness. They’re both somehow sitting on the floor. How did Yuuri get on the floor? Chris has both of Yuuri’s hands clasped in both of his, and continues to tighten his grip gently, periodically. He alternates to rubbing his thumbs soothingly. He wears a soft smile the entire time.

“There we go,” Chris whispers. “Are you with me?”

He can’t speak. So he nods.

“Maybe we’ll wait a minute or two before we go downstairs?”

Yuuri nods again, willing his voice to come back to him. Chris releases his hands but makes no move to get up and leave, or even move to the bed which is far more comfortable than the floor.

“You know, sometimes it can be hard talking to Viktor or Phichit. Or Otabek,” Chris says conversationally. “Talking to Otabek is like talking to a brick wall. Not a lot of emotion there. At least not outwardly. He cares very deeply, but he never has been one to show it. Viktor…sometimes it can be awkward with Viktor, I think. He sympathises deeply, often I think he has the tendency to feel _too_ much. But he doesn’t understand. How could he? And when he doesn’t understand, he says things that perhaps don’t always come across the way he intends. As for Phichit… Well, he’s never been through it himself. Bless their souls, they’d do anything to help, but they don’t get it.”

Chris pauses, as if waiting to see if Yuuri will react. Yuuri can still only nod to show he’s listening.

“I think that maybe Yurio doesn’t fully understand either,” Chris goes on, careful and slow. “You’re two different people, and you both experienced the same thing in very different ways.”

“I-” Yuuri’s voice is croaky. “I would never want to…be a burden to Yurio. He’s already dealt with enough of my…my… I don’t want him to have anything else on his shoulders.”

“Of course not,” Chris says. “But you know, Yuuri, that doesn’t mean the burden should be yours to bear alone. I’m not saying that even I completely know what you’re feeling. But remember, I was at the whims of Isaak and Matvei too once. I was saved from that life too, and I had to learn how to live a new life just as you do. Maybe my experiences can offer you some kind of comfort. If you’d ever like to talk, you can find me.”

Chris waits. Yuuri doesn’t even know how to begin. He doesn’t know if he _wants_ to divulge this. Surely it’s weird. Surely even Chris would think it’s weird.

As if sensing his hesitation, Chris smiles again.

“I don’t know if Viktor has ever told you,” he starts. “We knew each other before he took me away from those two.”

Yuuri starts at that.

“I won’t tell you the whole story now,” Chris says. “But yes. We met around a month or two after Isaak and Matvei first bought me.” Chris says it with such ease that Yuuri flinches. “I was only fifteen. Viktor, seventeen. Isaak brought me to Mr. Nikiforov’s house while Matvei was in a meeting with him one day. Viktor didn’t appreciate what Isaak was doing in his house. He was practically my knight in shining armour! He whisked me off to his room to play video games. Back then, I could only speak French. And a little English. You know, Viktor’s fluent in French! He always has been. I didn’t talk much, but it was nice to have someone speak to me in a language I could understand. We became friends, and saw each other every few weeks. Isaak didn’t know it was an innocent relationship. Viktor didn’t know how Isaak punished me after we’d spent time together.”

The dark look in Chris’ eyes is there and gone in a flash.

“It wasn’t until two years later, at a party, that Viktor saw the results of this punishment. He marched straight up to his father and begged him to buy me from Isaak. Mr. Nikiforov isn’t as soft a touch a Viktor is, but nobody can say no when Viktor pulls that face.” Chris chuckles fondly. “That night, I didn’t go back with Isaak and Matvei.”

Yuuri mulls that over in the brief silence, not sure what to say. It’s almost hard to truly believe Chris and Viktor have known each other for ten years. Ten years sounds like a lifetime.

“When Viktor took me away from those monsters, I already trusted him with everything I had. We were such close friends. He’d been reminding me for two years that I was still a human being, and the only thing that made me a slave was a piece of paper. I believed him the whole time.” Chris takes a deep breath. “But…for a while…I couldn’t even sleep without mine on.”

Eyes going wide, Yuuri looks up at Chris. The man is tinged with a quiet sadness, and the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes the same as it did just a few moments ago. Yuuri can’t speak. He wants to. Chris will understand. But whatever words he thinks he’s trying to say get jammed in his throat somewhere, and he can’t say anything. He can only open his mouth and close it again a few times.

Chris lifts a finger to touch his own collar, and Yuuri notices it for the first time. It’s red leather, and certainly much thicker than Yuuri’s own. The Swiss man has it buckled flush against his neck. A scarf will hide it easily, but if Chris isn’t going to wear a scarf, it will be on display against his lightly tanned throat for all to see.

“I chose this one myself,” Chris says. “At first, Viktor gave me one like what you have. Something very simple, and small, and non-threatening. But red’s always been my colour,” he adds with a laugh. “And I never did like how the looser collars sit on me.”

Yuuri doesn’t think he would ever be able to actively choose a collar. It just doesn’t seem feasible that he can look at one and decide that he likes the look of it. That he likes the idea of it on him.

Chris fills the silence. “There was a time when my collar was…a source of comfort to me. I hated it. I hated everything it represented, I hated how it felt, I hated being reminded of what Isaak and Matvei did to me. But it was still a comfort. I can’t explain why. It just was. It sometimes made things easier. I think I was so used to having it on that when it was no longer there, I felt like something was missing. Weeks went by where I couldn’t sleep. And if I _did_ sleep, I’d wake up because of nightmares. Then I’d realise I had no collar on, and I’d panic, because for just a moment, I would forget where I was. I would forget that I didn’t have to wear one.” He hesitates. “One night, I woke up so afraid and confused, I clawed at my neck until I bled because I was searching for it. Viktor had a collar delivered the next morning. Anything to help me sleep soundly, even if it was only temporary.

“Having that kind of safety was strange, and I don’t know how healthy it was. But it was to be expected. And it did help. At least for a short while, it helped me with one problem. Yuuri, whatever you’re feeling is probably confusing. You might think it’s not normal. But I’m sure it’s very normal. You don’t have to tell anyone in this house anything if you don’t want to, but they would never judge you or think ill of you because of how you’re feeling. We all care about you. I hope you know that.”

It’s mostly out of reflex that Yuuri nods, but as he does it, he starts to think that maybe Chris is right. He knows he feels a lot of pity for himself a lot of the time. He sometimes assumes everyone else does too.

But why would everyone go so out of their way to do the things they have done for him if all they feel is pity?

The rush of emotion Yuuri feels doesn’t have a name. To have people who care – to recognise there are people that genuinely care – is something Yuuri gave up on long ago. He resigned himself to Yurio only, and Isaak and Matvei, startlingly quickly. He never thought there might be others in the future. Kind souls like Chris who will divulge something so personal to reassure him, and will reign in his physicality because he knows Yuuri can’t process it. Empathetic souls like Phichit who will bake cakes and cook all manner of Asian foods for dinner because he thinks Yuuri will like that better, and will cry for him and with him because he recognises the pain, and will seek him out to show him videos of hamsters online so that Yuuri’s not sitting by himself with his thoughts. And gentle souls. Like Viktor. Who will make sure that Yurio is well looked-after (with Otabek’s help) when Yuuri is delirious with infection. Who has found ways to either snap or ease Yuuri out of his panic when he couldn’t do it himself. Who practically shoved Otabek and Yurio out the door so that Yurio can see his family again, who has made sure Yuuri will still have support while in St. Petersburg, who is taking him to an eye appointment and paying for him to be able to see again. Viktor, who is so sensitive and mindful, he couldn’t even say the word “collar” a few days ago.

Yes, right now, Yuuri certainly knows there are people who care about him. He might be starting to care about them. And it’s that thought that gives him the strength to finally look up at Chris confidently and smile. The smile is small, but he hopes Chris understands. He has a funny feeling the man does.

Yuuri stands and wipes at his damp eyes with his shirt sleeve.

“I think I’m ready to go now.”

When he comes downstairs ahead of Chris, with his eyes red no doubt, no one comments on it.

There’s a kind of hesitant excitement building in Yuuri’s chest as the four of them pile into Viktor’s car. Chris makes a disappointed comment about a convertible, and Viktor laughs in response saying it’s hardly big enough for the four of them, but even if it were, a bubble-gum pink convertible racing through the streets of St. Petersburg is the exact opposite of lying low. And Viktor was apparently warned to lie low by both his father and his old bodyguard and friend, Yakov Feltsman. Warned, and pleaded with.

Chris seats himself in the front passenger side beside Viktor, so Yuuri climbs into the back with Phichit. As the car pulls out of the garage and down the curved driveway towards the massive gates, and Yuuri waits for _some_ kind of something spectacular to happen, he feels pressure on his hand. When he glances down, he sees Phichit’s darker fingers laced with his. The Thai man squeezes gently and flashes Yuuri an excited smile. His eyebrows rise in anticipation, like he’s waiting for Yuuri to respond. So Yuuri squeezes his hand right back, allows his mouth to curve because Phichit’s grins are infectious, and turns away again to stare out of the window.

It only takes them around forty minutes to drive into St. Petersburg. Viktor truly seems to live in the middle of nowhere. Or at least in the middle of the forest. Most of the drive is taken up by trees and a road that barely feels wide enough for the car, then they’re passing what seems to be old warehouses and industrial buildings, then suddenly they’re surrounded by hustle and bustle. In the front, Chris and Viktor chat idly, but it’s muffled to Yuuri who kind of can’t believe what’s happening right now.

As if seeing the world for the first time, Yuuri takes in every out-of-focus detail. Cars pass by them, people walk on the pavement with dogs and very young children, the traffic lights change so rapidly that only two or three cars can get through at once. He’s definitely still nervous – a fact that’s proven by his inability to stop fidgeting with his hands. But when no one turns to stare at the car passing by as if somehow sensing the presence of a slave, Yuuri manages to relax a little.

Viktor drives them to a multi-storey car park, and lucks out when the flashing orange number on the sign outside it says there is only one spot left. The Russian man shoots him a smile when he steps hesitantly out of the car.

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly, so that Chris and Phichit don’t hear.

Yuuri nods.

“Good,” Viktor says happily. “The clinic isn’t too far from here, so we can all walk and enjoy the fresh air!”

Viktor’s idea of fresh air is apparently vastly different than Yuuri’s. It’s frigid and frosty out, so much so that his face starts to hurt almost immediately after they step out onto the street. He fiddles with his scarf so that it covers his mouth and pulls his hat down more firmly over his ears.

Phichit walks boldly ahead, Chris falling into step beside him. Yuuri watches the two of them. They bump shoulders more than once, making Yuuri wonder if it’s on purpose, and when Chris whispers something to the smaller man, Phichit laughs and pushes him playfully. Chris makes a quiet show of pretending to be gravely injured: he clutches at his arm and utters friendly curses in French, attracting far more attention than Yuuri would be comfortable with. Phichit shakes his head, laughter still in his eyes, before linking arms with Chris and leaning into the man’s side. The moment is just that. A moment. Then Phichit lets go and pulls out his phone.

Well that was…cute. Is there something going on between them that Yuuri failed to notice before? Curiously, he glances to his side where Viktor is walking. The man stares at the backs of their heads before realising Yuuri is looking at him, then he meets his eyes and winks.

So it’s not just Yuuri.

He doesn’t know what to do with what he’s just seen. True, the situation they’re all in right now is unique. But he’s never really considered the idea that slaves could do…whatever it was Chris and Phichit just did. Is that even allowed? Viktor doesn’t seem too worried considering they’re in public.

Miraculously, in Yuuri’s opinion, they make it to the eye clinic without a problem. Chris and Phichit sit in the waiting area, while Viktor – as per the law – accompanies Yuuri during the exam. The optometrist doesn’t speak very good English, but Yuuri at least knows how to count up to thirty in Russian which makes things easier. The exam goes by smoothly with Viktor only required to translate a couple of times. The fact that Viktor technically owns Yuuri is never mentioned, not even when the optometrist finishes and asks Viktor to sign some paperwork.

While Phichit is busy finding the most outlandish frames on display and taking selfies with them, Yuuri picks simple blue ones. Ones that are similar to his old glasses. The optometrist tells them that he might have Yuuri’s prescription to fit those frames in stock, so they sit in the waiting area watching Phichit get excited about ugly glasses.

Yuuri wonders how Yurio is getting on. He hopes his friend found his grandpa in good health. He hopes he’s enjoying himself. He especially hopes Yurio isn’t being too difficult for poor Otabek.

“How are you feeling?” Viktor asks as Phichit forces ridiculous pairs of display glasses onto Chris’ elegant nose.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says truthfully. This is fine. Being out. It’s not as scary as he thought it would be.

Viktor smiles. “Otabek texted me. He and Yuuri will be staying in Moscow for a few more days. I was thinking that while we’re here, we could do a bit of shopping. We normally order things online and have them delivered because it’s easier, but I think it’s fun to do it in the real world sometimes. Chris and Phichit have small lists. Is there anything you’d like? Apparently Yurio has insisted on a new iPhone.”

Yuuri chuckles quietly at that.

“Maybe you’d like one too?”

“No!” Yuuri says, far too quickly. He feels his face warm under Viktor’s wide eyes. “I-I’m sorry. I just…I don’t need a phone.”

A phone is a gateway to the entire world. That idea is far more overwhelming than any collar could ever be. Somethig he doesn’t even want to think about right now.

“All right,” Viktor says. “What about clothes? Books? Anything at all, Yuuri. It’s not a problem.”

“I…I don’t know,” Yuuri says, not because he doesn’t know what he wants, but because he doesn’t feel comfortable asking for anything. Besides, he’s already just had a thorough eye exam and is getting glasses.

“We’ll see how you feel later,” Viktor offers.

Yuuri nods as a smartly-dressed assistant approaches them, a smile on her round face. She hands him a simple black case.

“ _Your glasses, Yuuri Katsuki,_ ” she says in Russian.

Yuuri’s heart leaps into his throat as he takes the leather case from her.

“Why don’t you go and test them out with Chris and Phichit while I finish signing some paperwork?” Viktor suggests. “Then we can all get something to eat before we go shopping!”

Feeling a little dazed, Yuuri thanks the assistant in stammered Russian (something that makes Viktor’s lips quirk up into a smile) and meanders over to where Phichit is bent double and laughing hysterically at Chris in a pair of hugely oversized aviators. When they spot him, Chris takes the sunglasses off and Phichit pockets his phone.

“You got your glasses?” Phichit asks. “Do they work? Let’s see!”

Self-consciously, Yuuri opens up the case and takes the glasses out, shoving the case into his coat pocket. If his hands shake a little as he lifts the frames, neither of the other two men comment on it.

There’s something undeniably right about the feeling Yuuri gets when he pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose slightly. It’s not the kind of _wrong_ rightness he felt and still feels with the collar. This is different. But familiar. Like home. Like wrapping oneself in a warm towel fresh out of the dryer. The slight pressure on his ears and at either side of his nose is comforting. He can remember when he first got glasses in Japan. How he hated wearing them because they felt weird and Takeshi made fun of him and the boys at school used to steal and hide them.

Now… Now they feel like a gift. A precious gift, and something that he’s needed for a long time. He never realised how much scarier the world is without being able to see it clearly. He never realised just how sub-human having his glasses taken from him made him feel. Matvei was the one who noticed Yuuri’s eyesight problems around a week after buying him. The man caught him squinting at a packet of instant noodles, and asked if he could even read the Cyrillic. Yuuri replied that he couldn’t, and he didn’t even know that’s what he was looking at. The milder of his two Masters suggested to Isaak that they might want to do something about this issue – get him reading glasses at the very least. It was something Isaak vehemently protested against. What did Yuuri need his sight for? Why should Isaak be spending money on a defective slave he already paid for? It wasn’t Isaak’s fault Yuuri was given without his glasses, after all.

“Well?”

Yuuri snaps out of his stupor at the sound of Phichit’s expectant voice. He turns his head to look at the younger man.

It really is amazing what a piece of fancy plastic in front of a person’s eye will do.

As Yuuri’s gaze falls over Phichit, he notes the way the man’s brown skin seems to glow with his smile. The subtle pink of his flushed cheeks, the depth of his brown eyes which before looked black but now are chocolate and amber flecked and mixed together. His hair is far messier than Yuuri first thought, too. Though it’s glossy and shines spectacularly under this artificial light, Yuuri can finally see the individual strands sticking up and out making Phichit look windswept. Blurry, Phichit looked young. Younger than Yurio. But now, with his vision clear as crystal, he can see the faintest traces of maturity on the Thai man. Eyebrows, sharp and thick; face, not quite as round as he first thought; lips, chapped with the cold. And his eyes. Far wiser than through the veil of murk.

“How do I look?” Phichit prompts, smiling in such a way that shows off all of his perfectly white teeth.

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say, how to respond. Phichit looks amazing. Detailed. Real. Phichit looks honest. Phichit looks happy. Phichit looks like the sunrise.

“You look perfect, as always,” Chris says, sliding his arm around Phichit’s shoulders in a manner that’s just a little more than friendly.

Yuuri’s watch falls to the taller man. Even without glasses, Chris looks handsome. Almost rugged. Now, Yuuri sees the fullness of his pink lips, the slight natural pout on them. His face is softer, his nose is softer, his eyes are softer. Even his messy hair looks softer. Fluffier. He can count every single black eyelash that fans Chris’ face when he blinks, pick out each speck of stubble on his chin and upper lip. And his expressions. Tiny, micro-expressions passing over his face, flitting in and out of existence. He reads like an open book. There’s also something so strongly honest about Chris. Half-blind, it’s hard to see. But now that he _can_ see, he knows. Chris is a gentle soul. He’s tall, he’s toned and strong, he almost seems a little imposing. One need only look into Chris’ eyes to be able to tell that he wears his heart on his sleeve.

“Glasses suit you,” Chris says warmly.

Yuuri thinks he might tear up again.

“All right!” Viktor’s voice calls. “Everything here is taken care of, so now I think it’s time for something American!”

He turns. He’s a little afraid.

He needn’t be.

Viktor Nikiforov is beautiful. His heart-shaped smile greets Yuuri, shining on his pale face, as the man walks elegantly toward them. Yuuri didn’t even know people _could_ have an elegant walk. At least not a natural one. As he gets closer, he can see strands that are more blond than silver laced throughout his hair. Viktor isn’t old, but age presents itself shyly on his skin – in the faintest of lines beneath his lower lid, the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he dazzles the room with his smile. And that hairline, which is definitely high.

He keeps coming, and the light hits his eyes, and Yuuri is blown away by just how blue they are. So bright, so deep, like a tropical ocean somewhere. Or like the sea near his home, he thinks. Viktor is like moonlight. Bright, though pale, and comforting and white. But his eyes – his eyes are vibrant, vivid pools that are very much windows the soul inside.

“Something American?” Chris asks.

“Burgers and milkshakes, of course!” Viktor responds, coming to a stop.

“It’s ten thirty in the morning!” Phichit gasps.

Chris rolls his eyes. “Vitya, maybe we should hold off until-”

“You two are being spoilsports, and I refuse to listen to it!” Viktor says, placing the back of his hand against his forehead and dramatically turning away. This move earns several odd stares from patrons and staff. “Yuuri, tell them I can get burgers and milkshakes whenever I want!”

Yes, Viktor is graceful and beautiful, and almost a little too ethereal even in this harsh lighting. But there is something undeniably adorable about him too. It makes Yuuri’s heart warm and his spirits lift higher than they already were.

The four of them exit the building onto the chilly street. Viktor stalks off ahead with Chris at his side, the pair of them arguing about what kind of food is appropriate to eat before twelve noon. As if sensing Yuuri’s uncertainty, Phichit threads his arm into the crook of Yuuri’s elbow and walks alongside him, half leading, half supporting. They walk – probably in search of a place that will serve burgers at ten thirty in the morning – and Yuuri feels, for the second time today, that he’s seeing the world for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri has been given SIGHT. It's like hell froze over, because I finally did it. How exciting :D
> 
> Also, will I at some point write Chris/Phichit smut relevant to this AU simply because I want to write smut and we're a while from seeing it with the other guys? Probably. Will I also write separate one-shots/short stories about Chris and Phichit alongside this story? Maybe.
> 
> For those of you who are interested, I summarised the entirety of Chris' story of how he came to be with Viktor on my Tumblr, which is frilly-axolotl! It explains what Chris was doing before he came to be with Isaak and Matvei, how he managed to become a professional pole-dancer while living with Viktor (also mentions a brief relationship with a man named Musumi :3), what happened when Phichit came to live with them, and VERY briefly explains how Chris and Phichit got together. Might be some interesting background reading :P Search the "six kinds of love" tag on my blog!
> 
> We're not heading back to Yurio just yet! I have one more chapter for Yuuri in me, mostly because I had to split this chapter. We remain in St. Petersburg for now!


	18. It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri spends more time in St. Petersburg with Viktor, Chris, and Phichit. A familiar face makes an appearance!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert apology about length of time this chapter took here*
> 
> All I want you guys to know is that I appreciate both your patience and your concern for my wellbeing <3 I ALSO hope you guys know that I have NO PLANS TO ABANDON THIS FIC. Updates may take me several weeks as was the case here, but I will not suddenly abandon it, and certainly not without letting you guys know. I hope you continue to stick with me, as I have a lot planned for this story :P
> 
> Content warnings: references to past rape/non-con, a racial slur

**Yuuri**

It turns out that the only place nearby that serves burgers and milkshakes before twelve noon is McDonalds. The four of them unanimously decide to forgo burgers and shakes for now, instead grabbing hot drinks and small snacks to go from an independent coffee place. Viktor is still adamant that he wants that particular meal later, but agrees that McDonalds isn’t the place to get the good stuff.

Instead, they go shopping. Phichit concedes to wait until they head home to select a new hamster as it would be cruel to leave it in the little cardboard box in the freezing cold all day.

Being able to see gives Yuuri a long-lasting burst of confidence that he didn’t expect. Later, he might analyse why that is, but for now he relishes in it, because it’s been far too long since he last felt like a real person. As they walk around St. Petersburg, being dragged into almost every expensive clothing store they pass by an excited Viktor, he is still shy. He’s still quiet. He doesn’t initiate conversation, he doesn’t laugh as loudly or walk as confidently as the others. When people in the street or in the stores catch his eye, he drops his gaze out of habit and feels nerves creeping hot up his spine. But no one ever says anything disrespectful. It’s almost like they don’t know what he really is. He supposes they don’t. He, Chris, and Phichit are all wearing scarves to hide their collars anyway, though Yuuri gets the feeling that Chris is only hiding his for Yuuri’s benefit.

It's a sentiment he appreciates.

Yuuri is politely coerced into choosing things for Viktor to buy for him. He doesn’t like relying on others where money is concerned, but right now he doesn’t have much of a choice. And he knows what Viktor is doing: clear vision seems to equal a clear head for him right now. Viktor is trying to get him to actively make decisions, to ask for the things he likes so that he can regain confidence. It’s not the best kind of independence, but it’s the only thing they’ve got right now.

So Yuuri makes decisions. It takes him a while – a lot of watching Chris and Phichit, mostly – but eventually, he musters the courage to present a tan coat to Viktor. This one reminds him of one he used to wear at home in the winter months. Viktor seems happy that Yuuri is adding “some colour” to his wardrobe, and he profusely apologises for previously buying him muted colours like black and navy. Yuuri tells him he actually likes the muted colours. Blue is his favourite though. Any shade. Viktor smiles and replies that the colours pink and blue are in a tie with each other for him.

In certain stores, Phichit and Chris disappear. Sometimes together, sometimes separately. Yuuri learns that some are very “slave-friendly”. Some simply require the legal Master or acting Master to be present on the premises and slaves are free to roam. Others apparently don’t require the presence of any Master, just valid identification. Yuuri thinks it must be hard for slaves to make use of these stores considering they’re not allowed to walk through the streets alone.

One store that seems to cater more to teenagers, they enter at Phichit’s insistence.

“It’s the only place I can get anything with hamsters on it!” he assures them as the newest pop music plays a little too loud over the intercom.

There, Yuuri finds a loose-fitting black vest top with a brilliant white leopard print pattern, and strategic rips under the arms and all down the sides. He’s only ever seen Yurio in his own clothes once, over a year ago, but this top _screams_ his name. While Phichit rifles through racks of t-shirts for anything with his favourite little rodent on it, Yuuri grabs the vest from the sale rack and hopes Viktor won’t assume this gaudy thing is for himself.

They finish shopping with a sizeable collection of bags between the four of them, and it’s almost one thirty in the afternoon. Viktor declares that _everywhere_ will be open for lunch now, and he leads them to a place he promises will blow their minds.

“You say that about _every_ restaurant,” Phichit notes with a smile.

“Nothing beats _your_ cooking, mon petit chou,” Chris says in the smoothest voice Yuuri’s ever heard him use.

Phichit’s cheeks turn pink at the Swiss man’s words, and though he appears to elbow Chris gently, Yuuri catches the little smile on his lips.

The restaurant Viktor takes them to has a rustic but modern feel to it. It’s a long building that seems to reach very far back from the door where they stand. The floors are tiled – browns, beiges, and blues – and the walls are faded red brickwork. Sturdy-looking oak tops the tables, while strong black steel holds them upright. Some of the chairs are brown or beige leather, but the tables up the centre of the room are a confusing mix of plastic and metal. And they’re red. Dusky red leather seating lines the left wall and curves with the corner, with pillows that don’t match at all tossed around.

It’s not too crowded considering the time of day, and the waiter who leads them in seems to know Viktor. He takes them into the restaurant, up a set of five tiled stairs, and to a more private booth near the back where it’s definitely quieter. Yuuri slides in with his back to the door, and Viktor sits at his side. They order drinks – just water for Yuuri, a large strawberry milkshake for Viktor of course, a bizarre-sounding lemonade that contains mangosteen, grapes, and _lavender_ for Phichit, and some kind of green smoothie for Chris that boasts banana, avocado, and spinach.

“How are you at reading Russian?” Viktor whispers as Phichit pulls out his phone, presumably to translate the menu which Yuuri notes is written all in Cyrillic Russian.

“Not great,” Yuuri admits.

“Any idea what you’re in the mood for?”

“Something l-light,” Yuuri says, feeling a little ashamed at this admission. Perhaps today has been too much excitement for him, or maybe he wasn’t getting his appetite back at all. “Maybe soup?”

Viktor hums as he peruses the menu. “They have a tomato and mozzarella soup. Oh, chicken soup with noodles and eggs! That’s one of my favourites from here!”

“That sounds good,” Yuuri mutters, thinking that sounds vaguely like something his mother used to cook and he misses her cooking right now.

Chris and Viktor order burgers, and Yuuri is startled to hear Chris order his own in what sounds like flawless Russian. He supposes the man _has_ lived here for ten years. Of course he would have picked up something. Yuuri misses what Phichit says to Viktor, but he’s almost certain the man says “squid”.

“I think you should always try to try new foods!” the Thai man says with a grin when he catches Yuuri’s confused expression. “I’ve never had grilled squid before, so that’s what I’m having today!”

This burger place might be a lot fancier than Yuuri first thought.

As Phichit and Chris start to sip at their drinks, and Viktor tries very hard _not_ to start on his shake and spoil his appetite, scarves and jackets start to come off. Chris slides his scarf off his neck first, and shrugs out of his jacket to revealing a daring V neck t-shirt in a bright tie-dye pattern, all blues and purples and whites. The red collar sits flush against his neck. For a second, Yuuri can’t tear his eyes away. Chris offers him a smile. Phichit goes next, removing layers until his green hoodie is unzipped over his clean white t-shirt. Phichit’s collar is very much the same as Yuuri’s, he notes. The only difference being Phichit’s is buckled a lot more tightly around his neck so it mirrors how Chris’ is pressed against his skin.

Yuuri watches them continue talking, sipping their drinks, as if nothing is wrong. Maybe to them, there _isn’t_. Yuuri doesn’t remove any of his own layers despite the growing heat in the booth.

Viktor clears his throat. He looks a little tense suddenly.

“Otabek sent me this,” he says to Yuuri. “Yurio says to tell you not to worry, he’ll explain when they get back. But he’s enjoying himself.”

Frowning, unease bubbling in his stomach, he takes the phone offered to him and peers down at the screen.

There sits Yurio, eyes screwed shut as he smiles hard, half of his shoulder-length hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing a tacky looking jacket that appears to be two sizes too small for him; it has leather sleeves that only reach midway down his forearm, and awful bright leopard print around the body. The old man with the rugged salt-and-pepper facial hair that sits at his side, arm around Yurio’s shoulders, must be his grandpa.

Yuuri can’t help but grin. Yurio has his grandpa’s smile.

An extremely fluffy old cat is curled in Yurio’s lap. Potya, Yuuri would say if he has to hazard a guess. Potya, content and curled up, with Yurio’s gentle hand nestled in his fur.

Something’s not right, though. It takes Yuuri several seconds and a multitude of blinks to realise what it is.

His face. Yurio’s face. There’s a brilliant purple bruise painted across one of his cheeks, and it blossoms up around his eye which looks a little swollen near the bottom. And the bruise is huge. Yuuri doesn’t think he even saw one that big on Yurio while they were living with Isaak and Matvei.

“What happened?” Yuuri asks.

“Otabek didn’t say exactly,” says Viktor, scrolling to let Yuuri see more photos. Most of them include Yurio posing, either with his cat or his grandpa. “All he did say was that they ran into a little bit of trouble on the way there. But it’s dealt with.”

Yurio looks happy in the photos. On the surface. All his smiles are so wide that his eyes are shut, but the ones where his eyes are open, he’s not looking at the camera. Yuuri has an unpleasant feeling that if he was able to look into them directly, something less than happy would be evident.

He feels a familiar surge of protectiveness, and suddenly finds himself questioning Otabek’s abilities if this has happened on his watch. For just a second, he wonders if _Otabek_ was the one to mark his young friend like that, but immediately he quashes the thought. Viktor trusts him. After everything, Yuuri is starting to think Viktor really _can_ be trusted himself.

Yuuri says nothing. He just lets Viktor take his phone back and leans back in the booth to wait for the food to come. Trying to think about the food instead of whatever happened to Yurio just makes him not want the food. But he knows he can’t _not_ eat it. He should at least eat half. It’s only soup. He can do soup. Yurio would angrily demand it of him.

He shifts and fidgets, gradually getting hotter in the cosy booth with all his layers on. Phichit’s and Chris’ voices become a faint buzz. Viktor places a gentle hand over Yuuri’s, which is clenched in his lap. When Yuuri jumps slightly, more out of surprise than fear or reflex, Viktor removes his hand and smiles apologetically.

“Yurio looked happy in those photos,” Viktor says. “He’s a lot like his grandpa, wouldn’t you say?”

“Y-Yeah,” Yuuri replies, calming down. “I know he misses him. His grandpa raised him since he was around five years old.”

Viktor frowns. “No parents?”

“None in the picture.”

“How awful,” Viktor says, and he sounds genuine. “At least his grandpa was there for him. And the cat, is it Yurio’s?”

“A stray Yurio picked up when he was ten, I think.” Yuuri smiles. “His grandpa couldn’t say no.”

“I think it would be very hard to tell that boy ‘no’,” Viktor says with a pleasant laugh.

Yuuri manages a light chuckle. “I could never say no to him. Some of the silly things he convinced me to do when we were with-”

He cuts himself off sharply as he realises what he’s about to say. No, he can’t talk about that. He can’t call them by their names, but calling them ‘Master’ feels just as wrong. And he certainly can’t admit to all the times Yurio was able to get him to bend the rules just a little – for an extra episode on a boxset, to sneak the odd cookie here and there while Yurio acted as a decoy. That was dangerous. And it’s dangerous to talk about.

Viktor, to his great credit, brushes off Yuuri’s shutdown with a patient smile.

“He must have that effect on everyone,” the man says. Laughing, he adds, “Makes me wonder how kind he’s being to poor Otabek. I wonder how many cats Otabek will let him bring back. He’s a cat-lover, isn’t he? I’ve seen him with Snowflake. Looks like Chris has competition.”

“What’s this about competition?” Chris suddenly calls. “Yuuri, if you’re about to confess your undying love for Phichit, I’m afraid you’ll have your heart broken! I refuse to accept competition from any man! Or woman,” he adds with a wink at Phichit, who has gone very red in the face.

The four of them laugh quietly, but Yuuri doesn’t miss how Phichit leans closer to Chris and whispers something that sounds like “ _Je suis à vous_ ” into his ear. Pink rushes to Chris’ cheeks. Yuuri is suddenly glad he can’t understand French.

When the waiter arrives and sets their food down, Yuuri is feeling a little more up to eating it. His soup is a watery, clear liquid with strips of chicken, thick but short noodles, and slices of a boiled egg sitting within. Some green herb he can’t identify is sprinkled across the top. It smells heavenly. Viktor’s burger is massive, with cheese and sauce oozing out the sides onto the plate. Two cute little baskets sit at the side, one containing lattice fries, and the other onion rings. Chris has ordered a burger too. It’s a bizarre-looking thing with thick leaves of lettuce serving as the bun, turkey or chicken chunks as the main filling, and a host of other condiments, one of which looks like yoghurt. His side is a bowl of vegetable sticks – carrot, cucumber, pepper – and a little pot of something that is definitely yoghurt to dip. Apparently, Chris takes his physique very seriously. Phichit’s squid is elegant, almost exactly like something off the internet with its crisscrossing grill pattern and its expert presentation.

Yuuri stares down at his soup. He hasn’t been this hungry for something in a while. And as the other three dig in to their food, chatting amicably to each other, Yuuri feels himself start to relax properly again.

He eats the whole bowl, and even has one of Viktor’s lattice fries dipped in the milkshake. The milkshake thing is at Viktor’s insistence. It’s not that bad. Perhaps there’s something in that ‘fried goods with ice cream’ thing after all. The next time they go out, Yuuri thinks he’ll have to try a milkshake of his own.

Good spirits float around the booth as they finish up. Phichit is making fun of Chris’ “clam burger – what, it looks like a giant green clam!” while Chris makes playful faces in response. Yuuri’s pretty sure they’re actually playing footsie under the table, especially when Phichit accidentally brushes his foot against Yuuri’s leg and turns bright red but doesn’t say anything. He smiles a bit, and Viktor grins at the two opposite knowingly.

This is good. Yuuri feels good. Maybe living this way isn’t so bad. Hearing Phichit talk about video games and seeing the look of genuine interest and pure adoration Chris gives him the entire time lifts a weight from Yuuri’s chest – one he doesn’t realise is there until it’s gone. Seeing Viktor, a man who is apparently in some position of sketchy authority, blow bubbles in his milkshake reminds Yuuri of feelings he didn’t think he was capable of any more. He almost can’t believe he was afraid of these people.

“Excuse me while I run to the bathroom,” Viktor says, standing. He looks a little pale. “I think that was too much milkshake.”

The three of them chuckle sympathetically as Viktor disappears into the back.

“So?” Phichit says.

Yuuri blinks. “So…” he repeats.

“How was today?” the Thai man demands playfully. “Will you come out shopping with us again? Now that the nicer weather is coming, Viktor will want to show you the sights of St. Petersburg! All of the palaces, the museums. You know, the tourist stuff?”

Smiling honestly, Yuuri nods. Even if he is a little shy. “Today was nice. I think I’d like to see the sights.”

“Great, because Viktor loves being a tourist!” Phichit grins.

“And talking about Russia,” Chris adds.

“Oh, yeah,” Phichit says seriously. “He loves his country. Loves to show off how much he paid attention in history classes, and how often he goes on guided tours.”

“Phichit doesn’t find history as interesting as Viktor and I,” Chris explains with a fond smile.

“Isn’t it more fun to make up your own version of what happened?” Phichit whines. “And who wants to follow some droning, devoid of life human around for hours talking about dead people and old stone anyway?”

“As I recall, you were pretty excited to show us the sights in Thailand.”

“Yeah, only because we ran wild and didn’t have to stick to some boring programme.”

“When we went to Switzerland, you seemed to love the _programme_ ,” Chris reminded him.

“Skiing is so _not_ the same as wandering around a museum where you’re not allowed to touch anything.”

This is nice too. Listening to them bicker. They’re friendly with each other. Playful. This is normal, and how things should be. And it’s heart-warming for Yuuri to hear that Viktor has apparently taken both Chris and Phichit home to their own countries for visits. On more than one occasion, it seems. The couple – for they definitely _are_ a couple even if they’re keeping that fact quiet – opposite him suggest that they’ll be going back to these countries in the future, and that Yuuri can come with them.

Now there’s a thought.

“Yuuri, would you please tell Phichit tha-”

The look of abject horror mingled with confusion and shock that appears on Chris’ face as his words die on his tongue prompts Yuuri and Phichit to frown. Phichit glances to somewhere behind Yuuri where Chris’ eyes are fixed, but nothing in the way of comprehension flashes in his eyes.

“What is it?” Phichit asks, concerned.

Still frowning, Yuuri turns in the booth to see whatever it is Chris is looking at. It takes him a second to realise.

Everything in his body tenses.

Adrenaline, both white hot and ice cold, spikes so suddenly through his heart that Yuuri forgets to breathe, and a strange metallic taste washes over his tongue. At the same time, his stomach drops leaving an unpleasant nauseous feeling in its wake. Something prickly is crawling its way up the back of his neck, wrapping around it once, twice, three times, and snaking into his ears so all he can hear is a faint ringing noise. He gets the strange urge to stand up. As if that’s what he should do. Stand up. Head down. Greet this man. Just like he’s been taught.

And he’s halfway to doing it before he feels a hand around his wrist, keeping him seated in the booth. It’s too large to be Phichit’s.

“Don’t get up for him,” Chris hisses under his breath. His voice sounds muffled.

So Yuuri watches as Isaak walks closer to their table.

What he’s doing in St. Petersburg, why he’s in this restaurant of all places, why he’s approaching them – these are all things Yuuri might wonder later, but for now, he can’t think of anything. Can’t even make a noise. Not even when Isaak is standing right beside the booth, dark eyes trained unblinkingly on Yuuri.

And Yuuri stares right back. He’s never seen Isaak before. Not truly, anyway. He’s never seen the man through the clarity of his glasses. A moment ago, he didn’t even recognise him. But now he does. He recognises the faint stubble on his jaw, the rich colour of his brown hair. Isaak’s not old. Maybe in his late thirties, or early forties. Yuuri’s never known his age. But the tell-tale signs of the process are there on his face. Details Yuuri’s never had the opportunity to notice before. Faint lines around his eyes and between his brows, in the corners of his mouth. A mouth that’s smiling. Unpleasantly. Such a fake, dangerous expression.

Yuuri has seen that expression – blurred though it was – many times over the months when he was Isaak’s toy. It promises pain, humiliation, even torture. He’s done something wrong. Something to make him angry. As quickly as he had the urge to stand up, the desire to slide out of the booth and to his knees locks itself into his bones. The only thing stopping him from actually doing it is someone’s hand clenched tightly over his.

“ _Yuuri_.” Isaak’s voice is dripping with poison. “Fancy seeing you here. Alive. You’re just the picture of health, aren’t you?”

When did he get so close? Yuuri can smell the stale cigarette smoke on him, and it makes his stomach clench as if it’s about to expel his lunch. The hand on his squeezes. Grounds him.

A fraction of a second later, Yuuri realises he’s been asked a question. A question he doesn’t know how to answer. Is it rhetorical? Does his Master really expect an answer? If he responds when he’s not supposed to, it’ll warrant punishment. He’s gone so long without one…

“What are _you_ doing here?” a voice hisses.

Yuuri blinks and suddenly remembers where he is. That’s Chris’ hand over his, Chris’ voice demanding to know why Isaak is here. Isaak, who is not his Master any more.

Isaak, who turns a disdainful eye over to the blond man on the other side of the table, and Yuuri hopes and prays Chris won’t make Isaak angry.

“What a disrespectful tone for a slave to use,” Isaak snarls, making Yuuri flinch. “Your Master must not have trained you properly.”

“The man who trained me wasn’t good for anything, nor was he any good _at_ anything. I heard he couldn’t satisfy his partner, so he had to get a slave to make himself feel more like a real man.”

The venom in the Swiss man’s voice sends fear prickling up Yuuri’s back again. He wants to beg him to stop. Don’t make Isaak angry. _Please_ don’t make him angry.

“I don’t owe you my respect.”

Yuuri whimpers.

“Do I know you?” Isaak asks.

“I don’t know,” Chris responds coldly. “Do you?”

Isaak scoffs softly and turns his attention back to Yuuri. Yuuri pointedly stares at his own lap.

He can’t. This can’t be happening. Isaak can’t be here. Viktor promised. He promised. You’re not a slave any more. That’s what he said. Yuuri has gotten far too used to the freedom Viktor offers him. He should have known. He’s such an idiot. Of course it was all a lie. Of course. Duh. Why? How could he-?

“Come on, Yuuri, you know I like to see your eyes.”

If that statement wasn’t enough to send another sharp wave of nausea rolling through Yuuri’s stomach, Isaak’s thumb and forefinger gripping his chin and pulling his gaze upwards certainly is. And he leans in close. Far too close. Yuuri can smell his breath – stale cigarettes and sugary sweetness so stark it’s sickening. Somewhere in the background, Phichit’s talking. All Yuuri can hear is his own heartbeat.

Then Isaak’s voice, close enough that his words fan over Yuuri’s face and tickle his nose unpleasantly.

“I’ve missed you, slave.” His tone curls and coils around Yuuri like a snake. “I’ve missed your perfect little body and the way you moan for me. Matvei was an idiot to let Nikiforov take you away. Can’t believe I was going to let you die. Look at you. You’re perfect for me. Never had a thing for Japs before I met you, Yuuri.”

Isaak’s thumb presses against his lips for just a moment.

Another hand. On his arm. Phichit’s.

Yuuri gulps.

“D-Don’t touch me,” he bites out, voice trembling so bad he can barely breathe. “I’m n-not yours. Not anymore.”

“Nikiforov drilled that into your head pretty quickly, didn’t he?” Isaak says with a smirk. “You always were a fast learner.” After a beat, he glances around. “Where’s your little friend? I would have loved a chance to break him in. I bet that fucking Kazakh keeps him on a tight leash, doesn’t he? I wonder if he was taught to share his toys.”

Yuuri jerks his head back out of Isaak’s grip before he even has the chance to consider doing it. A protective reflex he’s had since first meeting Yurio, given fire now that Chris and Phichit are beside him, has him baring his teeth in a snarl.

“You’ll never touch him again,” Yuuri promises Isaak with more venom than he’s ever had in his voice. He’s fuelled when Isaak looks taken aback. “I bet that makes you angry, doesn’t it? You’ll _never_ be able to put your hands on him again.”

One.

Two.

Isaak steps back and laughs.

“I always loved when you took the initiative, Yuuri,” he chuckles, moving in close again and lowering his voice. “I think that’s what I miss most about you. How you came to me on your own. Do you remember the first time?”

Yuuri does. As he’s unwillingly thrown back into the first time he truly offered himself to Isaak, the world around him disappears. He remembers the mistake he made. The mistake that led up to it. He remembers, quite early into his enslavement, how Isaak told him not to make a sound, and so to stop any sound coming out, he bit down. He should have tried harder. He should have remembered what he had in his mouth.

Isaak was furious. Angrier than Yuuri had ever seen him. Even angrier than the time Yuuri dropped one of the crystal glasses, shattering it on the floor, resulting in a punishment that Matvei of all people had to save him from. So enraged was Isaak at being bitten, he barely glanced at Yuuri. With a promise to make him regret what he’d just done, he stormed to where Yurio and Matvei were sitting upstairs and took his fury out on the Russian boy. Yuuri will never forget how much blood poured from Yurio’s mouth when the young man bit his own tongue; will never forget how black and blue and swollen the left side of Yurio’s face was.

He'll never forget how Isaak tore the shirt from Yurio’s slim body and came within an inch of violating him the way he violated Yuuri.

Miraculously, Yuuri’s begging worked. He promised, screamed, pleaded. Said he would do anything. Promised he would make it up to Isaak. And Isaak, smiling cruelly, told him he had until morning.

That night, Yuuri didn’t sleep. He waited until Yurio’s fitful tossing and turning calmed, then snuck out of their shared room, creeping downstairs to where he knew Isaak would be even at this late hour. Sure enough, the man was sitting watching some stupid late-night TV show, half-asleep. Yuuri woke him with gentle pawing and a well-trained mouth.

That night, Yuuri climbed onto Isaak’s lap and was allowed total control. He made it count. He had to. For Yurio.

The memory makes him shiver. Isaak stepping closer once more makes him shiver. He suddenly finds himself desperately wishing he couldn’t see this man so clearly. Things were easier when Isaak was blurry.

“I wonder what it’d take for Nikiforov to let me take you back,” Isaak muses aloud, running a thumb far too close to Yuuri’s mouth.

As if by magic – as if saying his name three times summoned him like in a fairy tale – Viktor is there. He looks pale, a little dishevelled from whatever he was doing in the bathroom, but most of all, he looks furious. Yuuri flinches out of instinct even though that anger is clearly not directed at him.

“Isaak.”

The way Isaak jumps in fright and tears himself away from Yuuri might be comical if things weren’t so tense. As he moves, Viktor does too, so casually but precisely stepping in front of Yuuri as if shielding him from Isaak’s leering eyes.

“M-Mr. Nikiforov! I was-”

“Oh, I saw what you were doing, Isaak,” Viktor interrupts, his voice cold as ice. “And I will only remind you this once. He is no longer yours. You have no right to touch him, and you certainly don’t have my permission to touch him. If anything like this happens again, with _any_ of my slaves, I’ll have Matvei fired. Then you won’t be able to afford any new _toys_.”

Viktor spits the last word like it tastes bitter on his tongue. For a split second, Isaak looks angry. But then it disappears, and the man bows his head meekly, uttering out some respectful Russian apology. He glances at Yuuri one final time before stalking away out of the restaurant like a rat escaping a cat.

Everything goes still for a moment.

Then Viktor turns so fast, Yuuri flinches again, but as the taller man crouches down below Yuuri’s eye level, the fury from earlier is gone and has been replaced with only concern. He takes Yuuri’s hands – both of them, he realises – and stares up into his eyes. That blue is so bright. Almost electric.

“Are you okay?” he practically demands, squeezing his hands gently and looking more than a little rattled. “What did he say to you? I’m sorry I was gone for so long, I promise I won’t let anything like this happen again. Yuuri?”

“I…I’m fine,” he says, even though he feels like he’d very much like to go and throw up in the bathroom too. Unconsciously, he grips Viktor’s hands. “I just…j-just…”

“Maybe it’s time to go home, yes?” Viktor suggests with a kind smile and a soft voice. “This has been a lot for you today.”

Grateful, Yuuri can only nod as he gets to his feet and Viktor hurriedly waves over a waitress so he can pay the bill and leave. His mind and body feel numb, almost fuzzy, as the four of them traipse out of the restaurant.

The second they’re outside, Phichit throws his arms around Yuuri’s neck and hugs him tight.

“I’m s-sorry you won’t be g-getting your hamster,” Yuuri stammers.

“Yuuri, don’t be silly!” Phichit cries. “You’re far more important than a hamster.”

“You were very brave to stand up to him,” Chris comments, patting his shoulder as Phichit lets him go.

“You stood up to him?” Viktor asks, surprised. “Yuuri, I’m so proud of you! That must have taken a lot of courage.”

“He threatened…at least, I _think_ he threatened Y-Yurio,” Yuuri whispers as they start to walk again.

To his surprise, a gloved hand slides into his, butter-soft leather warm against his skin. He glances over at Viktor.

“Don’t worry, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “He’ll never touch Yurio. Or you. Never ever again. And you did the right thing in standing up to him. No one is ever allowed to disrespect you like that, regardless of what the law says you are.”

Viktor doesn’t let go of his hand the whole time they walk back to the car. It’s only once they’re seated and driving that Viktor starts to converse in quiet French with Chris.

“ _Qu’est-ce qu’il voulait?_ ” Viktor murmurs over the sound of the radio.

“ _Je ne sais pas_ ,” Chris responds, equally as soft. “ _Mais il était à l-intérieur du restaurant. Je pense qu’il a attendu jusqu’à votre depart. Il est allé directement à Yuuri. La façon dont il le regardait…_ ”

“ _Je suis sûr qu’il n’y a pas besion de s’inquiéter_ ,” Viktor responds. “ _Isaak ne peut pas le blesser maintenant._ ”

Yuuri doesn’t speak nor understand a word of French, but something about their conversation makes him uneasy. He doesn’t know if seeing Isaak appear suddenly and out of nowhere has put him on edge. He tries to ignore the anxiety chewing at his insides in favour of watching Phichit play a game on his phone.

He hopes Yurio is having a good time in Moscow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess that I studied French throughout school and high school (for ten years) and I recall exactly 1% of what I learned. No shame in admitting I used Google translate to help me out here :P
> 
> I apologise for this unwelcome shock, BUT some of you know too well that I'm a sucker for a story with a villain character! 
> 
> Next chapter, we're finally heading back to Yuri and Otabek!
> 
> BluSkates has written me yet ANOTHER gift fic! This one is called Bad Math, and it's a neat rendition of her thoughts on the story of how Matvei and Isaak came to be in possession of the two Yuris!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/12372186
> 
> Finally, Tumblr user nakimushi-saan drew me this art of Viktor and Yuuri (forever ago, but it's been so long since I updated XD). I have no idea how to make it appear in the text like some of you wizards do, so here's the link to where I uploaded it to my Imgur instead!  
> https://i.imgur.com/7Rvd7jH.jpg
> 
> As I said, I hope you all continue to stick with me and this story! Please do leave comments <3


	19. Eavesdropper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri is finally reunited with his grandpa, who doesn't seem to care for Otabek very much at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA, I did it >:D I was aiming to get this done before the New Year, and BOY I DID. This is just under 5,000 words of pure angst (don't worry, happier times are on the horizon VERY soon!). So, to make up for that, please go check my profile for a new thing I've posted. It's going to be a compendium of extra chapters/one-shots from the Six Kinds of Love verse. And the very FIRST one is that long-ago promised Chris/Phichit smut! So go read that after you read this to soothe your aching soul. If ya want.
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: mentions of the assault Yuri experienced a few chapters ago, poverty/low living conditions, talk of some of the other abuse Yuri has experienced with Isaak and Matvei, mentions of rape and sexual abuse, mentions of parental abandonment.
> 
> Like I said, it's a heavy chapter >.< Pinky promise happier times are nigh!

**Otabek**

Otabek is exhausted when he goes to bed. Waking up early and driving all day will do that to a person.

Despite this, he gets almost no sleep. While Yuri sleeps in the other bed, albeit fitfully, Otabek tosses and turns, closes his eyes only to open them to find that a mere fifteen minutes have passed. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s scared Yuri will get up and leave again. Maybe the guilt is just too much to bear.

Returning to the room after his cigarette, and his encounter with a lusty woman who clearly wanted a night of passion and would not be staved off until he bluntly told her “I’m gay”, was one of the most heart-wrenching moments of Otabek’s life. He knows Yuri isn’t stupid enough to run off and try to “escape” or anything like that. He knew it last night too. But finding Yuri gone still put the thought in his head. Was Yuri just waiting for an opportunity? Would he really leave the other Yuuri?

Otabek searched the room like a fool, and checked the bathroom. He scanned the bar downstairs wondering if Yuri was maybe just hungry or thirsty, but didn’t find him. He asked the reception staff if they saw him pass. None of them did. When he stepped outside and heard the shuffling and the sounds of feet on the floor, murmured Russian voices, he assumed he was about to come across a drug deal. Something harmless.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that look on Yuri’s face. Glassy eyes, not even present, and a potent fear hiding behind them. Otabek was never more glad he brought his gun.

“It was like being right back there with Isaak,” Yuri said.

And Otabek felt so fucking terrible, so painfully guilty, he didn’t know what to do or say. Bringing Yuri back inside with an arm around his shoulders seemed the logical thing to do. Now Otabek’s not so sure. Maybe he should have stayed up. Talked to Yuri. Comforted him, or at least tried harder to do so. It’s hard to know how to deal with Yuri, who is all claws and hissing and rage, but he _could_ have tried harder. He should have.

Yuri Plisetsky is dainty, for his age. At first glance, he seems to have the face and body of someone much younger than his eighteen years. Any muscles he developed during his figure-skating career are long gone, leaving everything smooth and flat. Otabek thinks that maybe that has something to do with the way he feels. The way he’s felt since he first saw Yuri in person.

Watching someone who looks so delicate being pushed around by someone like Isaak made him angry, incited a surge of protectiveness so strong, Otabek intervened before he even really knew what he was doing. That fight he had with Yuri on his first night – that physical and stupid fight over a simple misunderstanding – still eats away at him. He never wanted to make another person feel like that. Learning where the mark on Yuri’s neck came from was another thing that made him angry. Watching Yuri break down in front of him after his argument with his friend…

Something in him wishes Yuri would listen more closely to what Otabek has to say. He doesn’t want the shorter man to be afraid, and certainly not of _him_. He wants Yuri to relax, recover. In the car, Yuri showed him a glimpse of what he’s like on the inside. Otabek’s not sure if Yuri will ever get there again after what happened earlier. Any trust they may have built feels fragile now. Too fragile.

So Otabek tosses and turns, restless for the entire night, getting only a few minutes of sleep every now and then. When his phone’s alarm sounds at eight in the morning, startling Yuri awake, Otabek hopes his tiredness won’t get them both killed on the rest of the journey.

Yuri doesn’t say much this morning, although silence is pretty normal for him. This time it feels different, though. He only interacts with Otabek two times, once to tell him no when Otabek asks if he’d like to shower, and also to tell him no when Otabek asks if he wants breakfast before they go. Still feeling monumentally guilty, Otabek doesn’t shower or eat either. Instead, he grabs coffee before they leave and downs it all at once, ignoring the blistering heat searing down his throat. His father always used to say there was nothing like a burnt oesophagus to start the day. And the burning there at least eases a fraction of Otabek’s guilt, especially when he realises Yuri isn’t wearing a shirt under that hoodie because the only one he brought with him was torn last night.

The silence in the car is stiflingly awkward. Otabek turns the radio on to quell it: they’re going to be on the road for around another hour. Yuri sits there, knees drawn up to his chest, hands unconsciously touching his own face every now and then. The bruise there is pretty significant. It’s painted over his cheekbone like some macabre blusher, extends up around his slightly swollen eye, and finally creeps up onto the bridge of his nose. It looks painful. Yuri doesn’t complain. For the rest of their journey, Yuri doesn’t say a word. When Otabek asks him a question, to try to engage him a little and bring him out of this depression, Yuri ignores him. His ignorance isn’t stony. If anything, it feels a little sad.

If anything, it reminds Otabek how much his neglect could have cost them last night.

He wants to say something. Something profound, or at least reassuring and remorseful enough that Yuri will snap out of this low mood. Otabek has somehow gotten used to glares and hissed insults. Yuri’s normally crass and volatile personality shines through even when he’s sitting doing nothing. Usually, that is.

Otabek makes a valiant attempt to convince himself that it’s not his fault. After all, he’s not the one who grabbed Yuri in a dark alley. He’s not the one who hit him and tore his clothing and pushed him down. Whoever he was – that creep who refused to move, believing it all to be a game – it’s his fault. Something that Otabek tells himself over and over, because admitting to himself that he shouldn’t have left Yuri alone, admitting to himself that he could and should have tried harder to just ignore the woman and head back upstairs, makes the guilt burn ever hotter. He was polite with her for almost an hour. An entire hour. Who, in their right mind, would leave Yuri alone in a situation like theirs?

The ride remains quiet.

An hour or so later, Otabek is struggling through one-way streets and fearing slightly for his car being left outside here. The change to this clearly rougher part of town was gradual, but now it’s stark. Crude and downright vulgar graffiti is painted over almost every square inch of wall in sight. The roads and pavements are covered with litter, and look unkempt. A stray dog, skinny and matted, barks at the vehicle as they drive past. Deeper into the winding streets, Otabek spots the odd homeless person, either curled up and still asleep or sitting hunched in alcoves and alleyways.

If this is where Yuri was born and raised, everything about him suddenly makes a lot more sense. The fact that he went on to become the most graceful top figure skater in the junior division is just surprising. Then again, Otabek realises he doesn’t know anything about where Yuri was brought up. He of course found it odd that Yuri would want to contact and see his grandpa, of all people, instead of his parents. But he knows better not to pry.

He has no choice but to abandon the car at the side of the road, a few feet from the apartment building where Yuri’s grandpa lives. Hauling everything of value from inside the vehicle, he nods at Yuri to lead the way, and follows after when he walks nervously up to the main door. Yuri pushes the button for apartment forty-three.

A crackle.

“ _Da_?”

Yuri’s throat sounds tight as he tries to speak. “ _D-Dedushka_.”

There’s a sigh.

“ _Yurochka._ ”

The click of the door unlocking is all he hears before Yuri is wrenching the thing open and disappearing from view. Otabek struggles to follow after him with his arms laden, noting how cold and down-trodden the interior is. When he finally makes it to the fourth floor, he has to pause in the hallway. Approaching them feels like intruding.

Yuri’s grandpa isn’t very tall. Only an inch or two taller than his grandson. He has salt-and-pepper hair, a rough-looking beard, and a bushy yet wiry moustache as well as a slightly stout build. His cap hides the lines on his face that show his age as he buries his face in Yuri’s pale blond hair, arms tight around Yuri’s slim shoulders. Otabek can’t tell if Nikolai Plisetsky’s hands are shaking, or if it’s Yuri’s body. Maybe both. Sobs, muffled by his grandpa’s jacket, spill out from the much younger man. Mr. Plisetsky whispers soothing things in response, but Otabek catches the tear that drips from his aged eye.

After a somewhat awkward eternity, Mr. Plisetsky pushes Yuri back by the shoulders, looking him over in a manner that reminds Otabek of how his mother would fuss when he came home after playing with the boys in the neighbourhood who were much older and rougher than he was. His large, wrinkled hands slide up to cup Yuri’s face, and first he looks upset, but then he looks angry. Very angry.

His glare moves to Otabek, who finds himself frozen.

Mr. Plisetsky’s eyes are the same blue-green as Yuri’s, and that same hardness akin to a soldier’s burns deep. It’s a look so similar to the one Yuri gave him when they first met. Except for some reason, it makes Otabek afraid. Yuri, he could defend himself against. Easily. But there’s something about Mr. Plisetsky – this harsh-faced, angry, protective old man – that makes him thing he probably wouldn’t win if it came to a fight. Otabek wouldn’t fight an old man anyway, especially not Yuri’s _grandpa._

“I thought you said they were good people,” the old man growls, low and dangerous, like a lion. “You told me they never hurt you.”

Mr. Plisetsky makes a movement so miniscule, it might be missed by an ordinary person. But Otabek is trained to notice these things, and Yuri knows his grandpa well. Otabek almost takes a step back, but Yuri comes to his rescue, placing his trembling hands over his grandpa’s – which are still cupping his face gently – and stepping ever so slightly between them.

“No, no, grandpa,” Yuri begins, his voice uncharacteristically soft and breathy. “I know what it looks like, but they- I’m- Otabek never- he’s been-”

Yuri’s voice gets gradually thicker until it seems like he just can’t get a sound out at all. Then he’s crying again, and Mr. Plisetsky’s attention is diverted back to his distressed grandson.

“Yurochka…”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Yuri promises. “But Otabek’s never hurt me. I swear.”

Mr. Plisetsky seems wholly unconvinced, but when he leads Yuri inside with an arm around him, he invites Otabek to follow them, albeit stiffly. Otabek kicks the door shut and struggles to follow them down the cluttered and cramped hallway with his arms full of bags.

The apartment is tiny, and freezing cold. Maybe only a couple of degrees warmer than outside. The hallway leading from the front door is narrow, littered with pairs of shoes and unopened mail. There are two closed doors on either side of the hall, and what looks like the smallest bathroom ever at the far right. The bathroom has no door, and the frame looks a little splintered, as if the door has previously been ripped off its hinges. At the end of the hall, there’s another frame with no door, instead having a thick curtain for some kind of privacy. Or perhaps, Otabek thinks, it’s to keep in the heat: when they step into the cramped living room, it’s noticeably warmer than the hallway, probably due to the _three_ space heaters all facing towards the single sofa. A ragged, grumpy-looking cat is curled up in front of one, and it raises its head in interest when it hears them.

“Potya,” Yuri whispers, stepping out of his grandpa’s hold.

The cat doesn’t take its eyes off Yuri as it gets to its feet, approaching cautiously before seeming to recognise him and rubbing up against his legs, vocalising and chirping loudly. Yuri kneels down and picks up the cat, hugging it close, and the cat purrs contentedly.

Otabek sees nowhere to put the bags, and he doesn’t want to ask, so he drops them by the curtain.

“Grandpa,” Yuri says softly. “The gas got shut off again? I’m sorry, I-”

“Yurochka, I never want to hear you saying you’re sorry unless you’ve done something wrong,” Mr. Plisetsky admonishes.

“But if I hadn’t- I knew you wouldn’t- How are you supposed to live if I can’t pay the bills?”

Oh. _Oh_.

Otabek swallows.

“Don’t you worry about me, Yurochka,” the old man smiles. “You know I’m happy as long as I have my five channels. And I’ve given up the cigars!”

It’s clearly meant to be a little joke, but Yuri only looks more distressed, and it becomes painfully clear to Otabek that the state of this apartment – the disrepair, the cold – is because bills haven’t been paid. Bills that only Yuri would have been able to pay through his skating.

“Don’t get upset, Yurochka,” Mr. Plisetsky says. “I’m fine. Here, let’s have a seat. I’ll make some tea and you can tell me what happened.”

“I’ll make it,” Otabek says, feeling more awkward by the second and desperately hoping for an excuse to leave them alone for a while. “Is the kitchen through here?”

He barely sees Mr. Plisetsky nod before he’s hurrying through the door to the kitchen. It’s weighted, and swings shut behind him.

He realised once he’s in here that he didn’t ask either of them how they take their tea, but he’s certainly not about to go back through and make anything more awkward. So instead, he fills the kettle to maximum capacity – a perfect excuse to spend even longer in the kitchen – and sets it to boil as he searches for what he needs.

There’s a small, circular table pushed against the wall, with two mismatched chairs. He sits down in one of those as he waits for the water to boil, staring around at the room.

The fridge-freezer is nearly completely covered, in magnets, and notes, old photographs, and childish drawings. Closer inspection reveals that the magnets are mostly from various places in Russia – St. Petersburg, Sochi, Chelyabinsk, Saransk, to name a few – and other odd locations around the world. Otabek figures they must be to do with Yuri’s skating based on what he’s learned about Russian figure skating since living with Viktor. The notes are casual reminders to buy things like cat food on certain days of the week, but a couple are in a messy scrawl that seems to belong to Yuri detailing his training schedule and when he’d be available to come and visit.

Otabek’s eyes fall to the drawings, crafted with cheap paper and even cheaper crayons. Tigers, leopards, and one hellish beast that seems to be some kind of tiger-like big cat with a stinger on its back akin to that of a scorpion. Arrows point to various parts of the apparent monster, with written exclamations of amazement and explanations of what the parts are. Another drawing is a valiant attempt at a person ice skating. When Otabek catches sight of one of the photographs, he realises the crayon figure is supposed to be _Yuri_.

The photo taped next to it shows Yuri as a young child. Four or five years old. His clothes are clearly too big for him, and tattered. The hat on his head is meant for an adult; the skates on his feet plastic-looking and blue with bright red laces – rented. And his eyes are wide, his round cheeks and button nose red with the cold, his arms are thrown out for balance. But he looks straight at the camera, with a kind of hope shining through the nervousness. Other photos sparsely document Yuri’s confidence in his skating grow, until he’s wearing costumes and his own skates, until his bowl cut has grown out and he started wearing his hair long, until he lost the baby fat and his eyes lost that adorable wideness and instead adopted something hard and fierce.

In among all the photos of Yuri and his grandpa, and even that cat, Otabek notices a distinct lack of parents in any of them.

Before he really has time to think about it, the kettle clicks and finishes boiling. He jumps up to prepare tea for Yuri and his grandpa, but stops as their voices waft through the curtain.

“-threatened to drug me too if I didn’t behave, and I didn’t want that, I didn’t want to fall asleep, I didn’t know what they’d do to me if I couldn’t even fight back.”

“Yurochka, you only did what you had to. Surviving means you did everything right.”

A beat of silence.

“They stripped us. As soon as we got there. Yuuri wasn’t even awake yet, and they stripped us and put collars on us. They took his glasses. He couldn’t see enough to know what was really going on. If I hadn’t been there, he’d never have known until…”

Yuri goes on in the patient silence. He tells his grandpa with obvious difficulty how he and Yuuri both were forced on stage in front of hundreds, completely naked, and were sold together in some sick version of a “buy one, get one free” deal. Otabek feels his stomach drop at that. Imagining the humiliation, the fear. And his own disgust is a physical feeling deep in his chest, making him almost want to somehow distance himself so he doesn’t have to hear any of this.

The young Russian man tells of his terror when his two new Masters hastened to get he and Yuuri home, and how he was so grateful to have someone else protecting him. His guilt at quietly hoping his Masters never turned their attentions on him comes out with another burst of tears. He details the things he was forced to watch, the messes he couldn’t _not_ clean up, the states Yuuri Katsuki was left in when Isaak and Matvei were finished for the night. He struggles through telling his grandpa about one truly horrific time, around five weeks into their enslavement, when Katsuki dropped a crystal glass. Isaak lost his cool completely. Threw Katsuki into the basement and chained him by his wrists from the ceiling like a piece of meat. Yuri doesn’t go into the details of what happened down there, for which Otabek is thankful. Apparently it was so severe a punishment, it was Matvei who snuck downstairs with Yuri in the middle of the night to get Katsuki down and treat his injuries.

Yuri shared a bedroom with the older man, and their bed was a single pillow and one fleece blanket in the corner of a room bare of furniture except one old TV on the floor and a window that was boarded up after three weeks.

He reassures his grandpa that he was never raped, never sexually abused. Otabek notices how he leaves out what happened before he came to live with Viktor. Not that he can blame the younger man. Nikolai Plisetsky seems like a tough old man, but revealing the any of the horrors Yuri himself faced in any detail seems pretty daunting, and almost dangerous. He _does_ mention that Isaak came close once, on a day only a few weeks after the incident with the crystal glass. Yuuri made another mistake, and Yuri was the one to pay for it this time. Otabek can tell he’s leaving out details to either spare his grandpa, or because he doesn’t want to talk about it. Mr. Plisetsky must notice it too. But he doesn’t say anything. The abridged version of the tale is already too much.

Once they’ve fast-forwarded through how it is Yuri came to technically belong to Otabek, what has happened over the last couple of weeks, and an extremely brief relay of the reason behind his bruised face, there is silence. It’s a comfortable one, but Otabek still feels awkward sitting here in the kitchen.

“You know, Yurochka,” Mr. Plisetsky began. “The community – our community, the figure skaters, your classmates and teacher from your ballet classes – there was an outcry when you went missing. Those closest to home have been helping me out with money. Your fanclub-” Yuri snorts at that. “-well, you can imagine. The neighbours have shown me what they say online. They all miss you terribly. Very concerned for your welfare. No one knew what had happened to you.”

“There’s no point in telling the world what happened when I can’t skate any more,” Yuri mumbles, sounding hurt once again.

“Whether you’re allowed to skate competitively or not, there are people out there who care about you, people out there you’ve inspired. Imagine how much strength it would give them to see how you’ve survived.” A beat of quiet. “Your online activities always brought you happiness before, Yurochka. It’s something to think about.”

As Otabek mulls over just how much has been taken away from Yuri, the small Russian whispers tentatively.

“Mama…did she…does she-?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Plisetsky says with a sigh. “She never contacted me.”

“Figures.” Yuri sounds defeated.

“Don’t think about her, Yurochka,” Mr. Plisetsky says in an authoritative tone. “She is not worth your time. Think only about who is here now. I’m here, and you’re here. And I’m so happy that you are. You’re here, you’re alive, and I love you. You’ll tell your friend – this other Yuuri – that I’m thankful for how fiercely he protected you? That I am so grateful he did the job so well that you were able to get back to me?”

“That’ll make him bawl like a baby,” Yuri protests.

“And this Viktor. I am thankful to him for being able to take you away from those monsters, and for enabling me to see you again.”

“Otabek’s the one who-”

“Yes, yes, him too.”

Otabek doesn’t fail to notice how quickly the old man brushes him off, and he feels just a tad bit hurt by that. But he supposes he can’t blame the man. He might not be very warm towards someone who owned a cherished member of _his_ family either, especially not one who was so inept at taking care of that person.

He sits in the kitchen for long enough that the boiled water has likely gone cold, and that shabby cat has wandered in and is eyeing Otabek up critically. After a moment, though, the cat twists itself around his legs in a manner that can only be described as friendly. He realises he can’t hide away in here forever.

Bracing himself, he walks back into the small living room.

Mr. Plisetsky is still seated on the sofa, and Yuri is curled on his side next to him. Yuri’s golden hair fans out over his grandpa’s lap. The man plays with it, runs his fingers through it, and Yuri seems to sleep peacefully all the while even when Otabek steps in and Mr. Plisetsky turns a hard eye to him.

“You didn’t know a lot of what he said,” the man states.

Otabek shuffles nervously. “N-No. I-”

“Yuri’s father died before he was born. Heroin overdose. His mother left when he was four years old.” These honest facts spoken so bluntly shake Otabek out of his stupor. “The only thing that made him smile was the ice rink. My daughter came back, once, when Yuri was eleven and was starting to become serious about his skating. When she realised he wouldn’t give her a penny, she left again and hasn’t seen him since.”

Otabek doesn’t know what to say.

“This is a rough area, Otabek Altin. All manner of things have happened in the streets below, in this building. We were robbed when Yuri was thirteen, right here in this room. Three men with guns and knives came looking for drug money. They found the wrong apartment. On his way home from school at the age of eight, Yuri was mugged by a teenage boy with a broken bottle. We have had all of our utilities switched off more times than I can count, we have struggled through freezing winters together, we have sometimes starved. I often had to choose between letting Yuri skate, or taking care of him properly.”

Mr. Plisetsky seems to glare at him.

“My grandson has been through enough,” he growls. “With me, and without me. I sincerely hope you’re not planning on putting him through anything else.”

Otabek shakes his head like a frightened child being scolded by a strict parent.

“I’d never- I don’t want to hurt him,” he manages. “I never want to do that. I wish I didn’t- ‘own’ him. I don’t want to have to take him away from here again. I don’t want him to have to ask me for every tiny thing he needs.”

“What _do_ you want?”

“I-” Otabek swallows. It’s a question that should be easy to answer, but isn’t. Because he feels like he’ll say the wrong thing. Because he doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know how to say it without it sounding like a lie, or like something stupidly cheesy. Otabek doesn’t even know Yuri that well. “I just…I want whatever he wants. I want him to be happy.”

There’s a tense moment in which Otabek feels like he’s being judged by some divine being. Those eyes don’t leave him, and he can’t look away though he dearly wants to.

Then Mr. Plisetsky sighs and nods.

“I believe you,” he concedes. “We only have the two rooms, so you’ll have to sleep on the couch. I’ll pull out blankets for you tonight. And you can have one of the space heaters. If you want to have a wash, you’ll need to boil some water and put it in a basin in the bathroom. I’ll be making pirozhki for lunch. Thank God for electric stoves.”

Not knowing what to say again, Otabek crouches to pet that angry-looking cat. When he glances back up, Mr. Plisetsky is carding his fingers softly through his grandson’s hair once more, and is looking at him with a fondness that reminds Otabek of how his mother looked at his new-born sister.

The decision was made in the kitchen, but the scene before him solidifies it into place.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he says sincerely. “I have some errands I need to run, if that’s all right. It should only take a few hours. Do you mind if I tidy up the hallway a little?”

Mr. Plisetsky nods, not taking his eyes off his sleeping grandson. “Do what you need to do. Let yourself in when you come back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without waiting for anything else, Otabek sweeps out of the living room towards the door. Briefly, he stops in the hall to gather up the pile of unopened mail. Opening someone else’s mail might be against the law, but he’s sure the Plisetskys won’t mind in this case.

As he makes his way back out into the street, he slides his phone out and pulls up Viktor’s number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otabekkk, what are you going to DO?
> 
> So now that I've depressed your moods, please leave comments before you run off to read the Chris/Phichit smut! http://archiveofourown.org/works/13195356/chapters/30183615
> 
> And if you REALLY wanted, you could read this OTHER gift fic BluSkates gave me (literally, this human being is so good to me). This one is a Chris & Yuuri based one-shot, and it features them together dealing with the aftermath of the last chapter where Isaak showed up in St. Petersburg <3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/12988872


	20. Melting Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri offers Otabek the chance to start over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, still powering on through!
> 
> To those of you who clearly cannot read (and please keep in mind it's only two or three of you, most of you guys are <3), I will reiterate. Loud and clear. This story has NOT been abandoned. YES, it takes me several weeks to get new chapters out at times. I don't know what to tell you about this except that it's something you'll just have to put up with if you're going to be reading it. As stated before, if I DO stop writing the story, I will let everyone know. Questions like "Have you abandoned this story?" and whiny comments like "The last update was ages ago!" do absolutely nothing to make me write faster. They make me feel bad for not being able to write as quickly as other writers in the fandom, and frankly, they annoy the shit out of me. So please stop.
> 
> With THAT unnecessary stuff out of the way, the chapter! I wrote and rewrote this around 6 times in total, and I'm still not 100% happy with it, but if I work on it any more, I'll cry XD The pacing is not so good. Oh well :P
> 
> Content warnings: a non-graphic conversation about sexual assault and violence

**Otabek**

When Otabek returns two hours later, Yuri is still asleep on the sofa. He’s curled up like the cat at his feet. Peaceful, and cosy with the space heaters all pointed in his direction. Mr. Plisetsky is in the kitchen, setting out ingredients for lunch. Apparently, he’ll be making Yuri’s favourite – pirozhki.

Otabek places the brand-new boxed iPhone by the TV where Yuri will see it as soon as he wakes up and slips quietly into the kitchen to show Yuri’s grandpa what else he bought when he was out.

It takes a couple of days for things to kick in. If Mr. Plisetsky has any inkling that it’s Otabek’s doing, he says nothing, instead stating that the return of the hot water and heating to the flat is a result of the kind neighbours coming through for him once again. Yuri, however, has a sharp and critical eye. As Otabek takes it upon himself to clean up the dingy apartment, Yuri watches him.

Otabek starts by generally tidying. He sorts and files Mr. Plisetsky’s mail littering the hall, with a little help from the old man himself. Quietly, he texts things detailed in the letters to Viktor. Is what he’s doing highly illegal? Yes. Will either of the Plisetskys mind? He hopes not.

He throws out shoes that are in complete disrepair and sets the other ones neatly on the neglected shoe rack. The clutter in the living room starts to clear, and finally, the kitchen gets a complete do-over. There are innumerable foodstuffs that have long moved beyond their dates. Mostly canned goods, which Otabek knows are still fine to eat, but he throws them out anyway. With the gas back on in the flat, the three space heaters are moved into a small storage cupboard in the living room.

Next, he moves on to the cleaning. Mr. Plisetsky helps where he can – apparently he has a bad back – but it’s mostly Otabek who mops and vacuums and scrubs every surface, including inside the fridge and the cabinets. Yuri’s narrowed eyes follow him every step of the way. Otabek makes sure to completely disinfect and bleach the bathroom too, taking note of anything that needs fixing as he goes.

It takes a total of two days for Otabek to have the apartment looking spotless and feeling warm once more. By this time, the new door he ordered for the bathroom has arrived. Bless expedited shipping. Otabek fits it himself, carefully removing the old bent hinges and fitting new ones. It’s on this day, the third day, that Yuri finally showers. Without the door, he’s been refusing and Otabek tries not to wonder if he would shower were Otabek not here. He helps Mr. Plisetsky cook while Yuri is washing himself, and it’s then that Mr. Plisetsky finally smiles at him and thanks him for everything he’s been doing.

The three of them eat soup with generously buttered bread before Mr. Plisetsky retires for the night, leaving Yuri and Otabek alone for the first time since they got here. Desperate for a reason not to sit in awkward silence, for he doesn’t know what he _can_ say to Yuri, he quickly jumps up and starts cleaning the dishes.

When he’s finished, he clears his throat.

“I think I’ll go to bed too,” he says, heading back out into the living room where his make-shift bed on the sofa is. “I-”

“Hey.”

Otabek turns at Yuri’s sharp voice. He’s standing on the threshold between the kitchen and living room, arms crossed, eyes harsh. Those clothes of his, from when he was sixteen, are a little too small now. The work-out pants come up a little short, but Yuri has rolled up the legs to below the knee and somehow makes it look stylish.

He tears his eyes away from Yuri’s bare legs. They’re so smooth and pale. Does Yuri shave them? Why would he want to shave his legs?

Yuri looks down at the eye contact.

“What… What you’ve been doing these last few days…cleaning the place up, getting me that phone I asked for…and I know it was you who got the bills paid.”

Otabek nods hesitantly.

“Well…that was nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.”

Yuri’s voice is soft for once. Soft enough to make him look small, with that big bruise still on his face. The swelling has gone down. Now it’s just an ugly mark that will eventually fade.

“I wanted to do that,” Otabek states.

Yuri nods this time. “It’ll be…easier for me. Easier for me to go back with you to Viktor’s knowing Grandpa’s not struggling.”

Otabek swallows. “Yuri, I wish I didn’t have to take you back with me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Yuri says quietly.

“If I could-”

“All right, you don’t have to keep saying it!” Yuri snaps suddenly, though his voice is nothing more than a harsh whisper. “I get it, you feel bad for me, you hate this as much as I do. Whatever.”

Otabek doesn’t know what to say, so it’s almost a blessing when Yuri takes a breath and goes on.

“You said… You said I could talk to you, right?” he asks, voice so quiet Otabek barely hears him. “Th-That’s what you said. And that it might h-help.”

Softening his features and his voice, but trying not to make Yuri annoyed again, Otabek nods. “Of course.”

Yuri gulps. “When Isaak-”

Otabek turns to look at him once again, but he moves too fast. Yuri flinches and clams up at first, before breathing deeply and continuing.

“When Isaak made me…y’know… It…hurt. I didn’t think _that_ would hurt. But it did. And I couldn’t breathe, and the taste was fucking disgusting, and I couldn’t stop him. I tried to, but I… And Matvei wasn’t there. Matvei would have stopped him. Yuuri was upstairs sick. Yuuri would have stopped him.”

“Yuri…”

“Once, Isaak tried to…he nearly…” Yuri takes a breath. “Yuuri bit him once. By accident. Isaak said that clearly Yuuri’s _last_ major punishment wasn’t enough, so he’d have to teach him in other ways. I was upstairs, alone. Isaak came in. He was so angry. Yuuri tried to stop him. Matvei tried to stop him. Isaak had hit me a few times before. But he’d never been…like this. He beat the shit out of me.” Otabek flinches at Yuri’s crass wording.

“All I could see, all I could taste, was blood. I thought he was going to kill me. Then he put me on my hands and knees, and he was so close, he was right there, and I wished he _would_ just kill me. But Yuuri…managed to stop him. Somehow. Isaak left as if nothing had even happened. Matvei helped Yuuri get me cleaned up.”

Yuri’s breath is shaky as he inhales.

“Yuuri had it so much worse than me. All the time. Every day. I don’t know how he handled it. I…I think about it all the time. The time he almost…and the time he did. When I close my eyes, I can still see him and feel him and sometimes I can still taste it, and-”

Otabek has the strong desire to reach out and comfort Yuri somehow, but something in his head tells him that wouldn’t be a good idea. And yet the shorter man seems to be struggling not to burst.

“Then, the other night, when it almost happened again…” Yuri swallows, though he seems to have trouble with the action. “It… I was… I can’t sleep.”

“Yuri, I’m so sorry, I-”

“I’m not _blaming_ you, asshole!” Yuri hisses. “I’m just _telling_ you. I…don’t have anyone else to tell.”

Otabek is simultaneously crestfallen and hopeful at that. Crestfallen, because whether Yuri is blaming him or not, it wouldn’t have happened if Otabek had gotten back to the room sooner. Crestfallen because Yuri is clearly struggling with it far more than he will ever let on to his grandpa or anyone else back at Viktor’s. And yet hopeful, because opening up this tiny little bit surely can only be a good thing? Hopeful because yes, Otabek is the only option right _now_ , but Yuri is obstinate enough to keep his lips sealed when he doesn’t want to talk, so this must count for something?

Maybe being here with his grandpa has softened him slightly. He’s only ever seen Yuri this mellow with Yuuri Katsuki, but even then, there’s often a hard edge to him. He’ll be open, he’ll be honest, but it’s never about him. It’s always about the Japanese man.

Maybe finally telling someone what it was like for _Yuri_ has shown him that letting it all out doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

Yuri seems perplexed by the silence. Apparently feels forced to fill it.

“And you seem pretty trustworthy,” he mutters. “Potya likes you,” he adds when the old cat brushes by Otabek’s legs. “Grandpa’s warming up to you. At first, I figured you were just being nice to me to get into my pants. Which didn’t make any sense. You could just take what you wanted. I’d fight, but I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

Otabek winces at that. Yuri pauses.

“But I don’t think that any more.”

Yuri is staring at him now, with those hard soldier’s eyes, waiting for him to react in any way. Almost as if he’s looking for a sign that he’s wrong.

“I don’t know,” Otabek says carefully, allowing a hopeful smile to curl his lips. “I reckon you could kick my ass.”

And shockingly – astoundingly – Yuri cracks a tiny smile.

“And I know you’ll tell me if I ever do something you don’t like. I’ll try my hardest to make you happy…or at least content with the way things are. We can come back here as often as you like, we can bring your grandpa to St. Petersburg. What happened the other night will never ever happen again, I pro-”

“You’ve made your point! Stop being sorry for that! And stop going all weird on me!” Yuri snaps. It goes quiet, and the Russian man sighs. He doesn’t look irritated. He looks like he’s finally somewhat at ease. “I’m just…I’m glad you’re not like Isaak. Or Matvei. So if you wanted to be friends or whatever, that’d be fine.”

Friends. Yuri is actually offering him friendship. Is letting him in. Hell must have frozen over, or Otabek has finally done something _right._ Who knew the key to Yuri’s heart is his grandpa?

“I’d like that,” Otabek replies.

“Okay…well… _good_.” Yuri’s cheeks are burning pink as he thrusts his new phone out to Otabek. “You can start by putting your number in here. And everyone else’s.”

Otabek wants to say something along the lines of “so I take it you like the phone”, but he gets the sneaking suspicion that Yuri won’t take that well. He would intend it to be friendly and silly. Maybe someone else would respond with a laugh and their thanks. Yuri won’t. Yuri _definitely_ won’t. Not yet. So Otabek doesn’t bother.

The blond edges closer, cautiously sitting down on the sofa beside him, though he seems to be making the effort to sit as close to the edge as possible without falling off.

“Do you think you’ll go back to social media?” Otabek asks, remembering Mr. Plisetsky’s advice as he copies numbers from his phone into Yuri’s.

Yuri’s eyes are on him in an instant, catlike and narrow. “Why? Am I not allowed?” he challenges.

Otabek disguises his sigh. “You can do whatever you like. I was only trying to make conversation.”

“Oh, right,” Yuri mutters, having the decency to look embarrassed. Otabek wishes there was some way to tell him not to worry about it without inciting another defensive snarl. “I don’t know…”

“Phichit’s all over the internet,” Otabek explains. “He has his own YouTube channel and everything.”

“Yeah, well Phichit wasn’t a world-famous figure skater before all this, was he?” Yuri grumbles. “You can’t even imagine the press attention it would get. Reporters – _fangirls_ – around Viktor’s house, attention if someone recognised me in the street.”

“No reporter would be able to find Viktor’s house,” Otabek says. “Trust me on that one. And being recognised on the street won’t be a problem when you’re with me.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything as Otabek hands him back his phone.

Eventually, though, “What about the press in general? Doesn’t matter what I put online, they’ll all want to talk to me. They’ll want a conference. And it’ll be _you_ they hound because I’m not allowed to make that decision for myself anymore.”

There’s a bitter note to Yuri’s voice.

“Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it,” Otabek reminds him. “If you want to talk to them, that’s fine. We’ll arrange something. If not, we’ll deal with it.”

“I _don’t_ want to talk to them!” Yuri snaps. Back to the snapping. “Do you think I want to sit at a big table with my _Master_ beside me while a group of money-hungry vultures interrogate me about what happened?”

“Of course not.” Otabek thanks his lucky stars that growing up with five sisters gave him the patience to deal with people like Yuri.

“And do you know what they’ll think as soon as they’re told ‘no’? They’ll think it’s _you_ not letting me talk.”

“I don’t care what the press thinks of me, Yuri,” Otabek reassures him firmly. “No one knows who I am. The people I care about know what I’m really like, and that’s enough for me. Like I said, whatever you want to do, I’ll support it.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything, apparently deep in thought.

“If you decide you want to speak to them,” Otabek begins carefully, “there’s a man who works for the Nikiforovs. Yakov Feltsman. You remember I told you about him?” Yuri nods mutely. “He has a lot of PR contacts. He would be able to set something up for you. Something respectful and sensitive instead of some huge conference. With people who won’t twist your words once they’re on paper.”

Neither of them speak. Otabek is learning not to try to fill the silences – Yuri seems to prefer them. He’ll talk if he wants to.

After a full minute and a half, Yuri gets to his feet quite suddenly, seemingly surprised by his own actions. He glances down at Otabek.

“I’m going to bed,” he says hastily. “I still want to stay a few more days.”

Otabek nods. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“’Night,” Yuri mumbles. Potya scampers after him, leaving Otabek alone in the tiny living room.

Feeling a little lighter, Otabek shimmies and rolls until he finds a comfortable position on the old couch, pulls the threadbare blanket up to his shoulders, and goes to sleep.

The next morning, Yuri has Otabek take several photos and send them to Viktor to show Yuuri. He emerges from his room dressed in the tackiest letterman jacket Otabek has ever seen. The body is leopard print, the sleeves are artificial leather, and it appears to be at least a couple of sizes too small for him. His expression dares Otabek to say anything about it. When Mr. Plisetsky comes in to the living room an hour later to see Yuri and Otabek eating porridge on the couch together, he smiles and tells his grandson he’s glad to see him in his favourite jacket again.

Four more days pass, and it’s on the evening of the seventh day that Yuri quietly suggests they can head back to St. Petersburg now. Yuuri is probably missing him, he reasons. Otabek still hasn’t told him about the incident with Isaak. He considered it immediately after Viktor texted him. He should tell him, before they get back, but they have around twelve hours of driving before he has to worry about it.

On the morning of the eighth day, Otabek loads the car with fresh pirozhki and bottles of water, and several bags full of Yuri’s stuff. He tries not to listen as Yuri says goodbye to his grandpa, but it’s difficult when the deserted streets are so quiet.

“Now that I’ve got a phone, I’ll call you every day,” Yuri promises. “And if there’s ever anything you need, just let me know. I’ll sort it. If you want to see me, we can plan something out. And Potya too, anything he needs. And if-”

“Yurochka, my boy, I have everything I could possibly need thanks to your Otabek,” Mr. Plisetsky whispers, petting Yuri’s cheek gently. Otabek feels his stomach flip at being called _Yuri’s_ Otabek. Which is unexpected. “And most importantly, you are safe. I could live without any of my luxuries knowing that.”

There are no tears shed. Mr. Plisetsky shakes Otabek’s hand before pulling him in for a surprising hug. It seems he’s warmed up to him completely now, but he still warns Otabek sternly to treat Yuri with the utmost care.

“My Yurochka really is a cat person,” Mr. Plisetsky mutters with a wink as he pushes Otabek towards the car. “He likes their companionship.”

Otabek nods in understanding, then they’re waving goodbye and Mr. Plisetsky is no longer in view.

Yuri looks a little sad, Otabek notes, as the Russian draws his knees up to his chest and leans against the door, staring out of the window at the passing concrete. Otabek chews the inside of his cheek for a second.

“Yuri,” he says. Yuri grunts in response. “I want to make a quick stop before we leave Moscow.”

“Whatever.”

Otabek is sure Yuri will be a _lot_ more interested when he sees where they’re going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is such a mess >.< Hopefully things are cleaner next chapter, when we'll be back with the other Yuuri!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bad Math](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12372186) by [BluSkates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluSkates/pseuds/BluSkates)




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